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T.IT3RARY 

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University  of  California, 

Mrs.  SARAH  P.  WALSWORTH. 

Received  October,  i8g4, 
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Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2007  with  funding  from 

IVIicrosoft  Corporation 


http://www.archive.org/details/footprintsofsorrOOreidrich 


FOOTPRINTS    OF    SORROW. 


rOOTPRINTS   OF   SORROW. 

BY  THE  KEY.  JOHN  REID. 
SECOND    THOUSAND.    12mo.    $2.00. 


"  The  author  gives  gold  fresh  coined  in  the  mint  of  his  own  mind. 
He  considers  his  subject  under  all  its  aspects,  first  showing  the  sources  of 
sorrow,  then  the  varieties  of  form  it  assumes  and  its  benefits  and  conso- 
lations. He  has  evidently  learned  from  personal  experience  the  mean- 
ing of  the  term,  and  also  where  alone  the  healing  balm  can  be  found. 
The  beauty  and  simplicity  of  its  style,  and  the  vein  of  touching  sympathy 
that  runs  tlirough  its  pages,  must  make  it  a  welcome  volume  to  all  sor- 
rowing and  afflicted  readers.  Its  exquisite  typographical  neatness  is  as 
refreshing  to  the  eye  as  its  contents  are  to  the  heart.  It  merits  a  large 
circulation."  —  Christian  Intelligencer. 

**This  is  a  book  of  rare  abilitj'  and  excellence.  The  philosophy  of 
sorrow,  its  characteristics  and  causes,  its  peculiarities  in  the  cases  of 
persons  of  different  ages  and  culture,  its  beaut}',  its  effects,  its  relations 
and  alleviations,  are  all  portrayed  with  truthful  discrimination  and  ten- 
derness." —  Herald  and  Presbyteiian. 

"  Perfect  in  the  tenderness  of  its  s^nnpathy  and  the  strength  of  its 
consolation."  —  Albany  Evening  Journal. 

"Many  who  have  tasted  grief  —  and  who  has  not?  —  will  find  in 
these  eloquent  pages  much  that  will  soothe  and  strengthen  their  hearts." 
—  Watchman  and  Reflector. 


BY  THE  SAME  AUTHOR. 

VOICES  OF  THE  SOUL  ANSWEKED  IN  GOD. 

Fourth  Thousand.    12mo.    $1.75. 

"  Old,  familiar,  and  cardinal  truths  are  treated  by  Mr.  Reid  with  a 
freshness  and  vigor  of  thought  and  illustration,  and  arrayed  in  a  bril- 
liancy of  style,  which  invests  them  with  much  of  the  charm  and  power 
of  novelty."  —  Princeton  Review. 

ROBERT  CARTER  AND  BROTHERS. 


Footprints  of  Sorrow. 


BY 

THE    REV.    JOHN    REID, 

AUTHOR  OF   THE   "  VOICES   OF  THE   SOUL  ANSWERED  IN  GOD.' 


SECOND  THOUSAND. 


NEW    YORK: 

ROBERT   CARTER    AND    BROTHERS, 

530  Broadway. 

1875. 

^*'  Of  xmi'^^ 
'UFIVBRSITTl 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  18G9,  by 

CHA.RLES  SCRIBNER  AND  COMPANY, 

In  th3  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States,  for  the  Southern 

District  of  New  York. 


Cambridge :  Presswork  hy  John  Wilson  and 


PREFACE 

TO     THE      SECOND      EDITION. 


There  is  not  a  man  whom  sorrow  has  not 
touched,  nor  a  pathwa}^  which  it  has  not  clouded. 
It  walks  in  company  with  the  heart  that  is  glad, 
and  speaks  to  the  chHd' whose  steps  are  free  from 
care.  The  subject,  therefore,  addresses  each  soul. 
It  is  the  plaintive  story  of  time. 

The  age  in  which  we  are  living  is  an  outward 
age.  It  touches  matter  rather  than  mind.  It  is 
scientific  rather  than  philosophical.  It  needs  to  be 
more  realistic,  more  subjective,  and  more  inclined 
to  look  at  the  evil  that  marks  off  man.  Whatever 
relates  to  the  soul  is  a  matter  of  interest.  Whether 
the  experience  be  dark  or  bright,  painful  or  pleas- 
ant, we  should  know  it.  The  words  sin,  remorse, 
unrest,  grief,  despair,  unhappiness,  point  to  experi- 
ences that  are  shaded;  yet  he  who  fails  to  scan 
them  closely  is  not  wise.  The  greatest  human 
passions  are  linked  with  sadness.  There  is  an  in- 
effable sigh  wandering  through  the  soul,  telling 


TJiriVBRSITT 


Vi  PREFACE. 

of  an  infinite  loss,  and  pointing  to  an  infinite 
Satisfier. 

It  is  a  striking  fact  that  the  mind  of  man  does 
feel  an  interest  in  the  working  of  both  guilt  and 
sorrow.  The  popularity  of  "The  Tragedies'*  of 
^schylus,  "  The  Divine  Comedy  "  of  Dante,  "  The 
Plays"  of  Shakespeare,  and  Goethe's  "Faust," 
shows  this.  The  romances  of  a  people  and  their 
songs,  the  sermons  and  hymns  of  gifted  minds,  the 
paintings  of  the  great  masters,  and  the  prayers  of 
the  good,  all  speak  to  the  heart  because  of  the 
pathetic  element  that  runs  through  them. 

The  present  treatise  is  not  a  devotional  book, 
although  veins  of  devotion  are  found  in  it.  It 
does  not  strictly  relate  to  the  afflictions  of  man, 
or  to  piet}^  on  its  sombre  side,  or  to  the  absolute 
gloom  of  grief.  It  rather  calls  attention  to  certain 
phases  of  sorrow ;  giving  shape  to  our  conscious- 
ness upon  the  subject,  and  seeking  to  impress  the 
mind  in  a  way  that  seems  right.  Any  person,  there- 
fore, may  read  the  work,  whether  he  be  indifferent, 
joyful,  or  sad.  The  chapters  are  arranged  rhetor- 
ically rather  than  logically,  as  that  method  seemed 
the  most  suitable. 


Tjiriv: 

CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER  I. 

CHAEACTEKISTICS  OF  SOBBOW. 


De«p  emotion  holds  the  mind  to  the  object  that  caused  it. — Sorrow  impul- 
sive at  the  beginning. — Alter  a  season  it  retires,  and  the  person  is  re- 
served.— Then  it  becomes  less,  and  the  person  more  free. — One  sorrow 
may  expel  another. — Two  sorrows  may  unite,  and  thus  deepen  the 
grief. — A  heavier  sorrow  may  have  no  tears,  while  a  lighter  one  has.— 
The  sorrow  that  causes  some  to  sleep,  and  some  to  keep  awake. — A  person 
in  deep  sorrow  will  be  apt  to  use  too  strong  language  when  de.  cribing 
his  condition.— Sorrow  affiliates  with  simple  language. — Sorrow  as  re- 
lated to  time. — Casts  its  shadow  upon  other  objects A  sorrow  lor  which 

we  can  find  no  cause. — Why  do  we  feel  sad  while  reading  a  work  of  fic- 
tion?—The  weeping  of  a  friend  will  sometimes  deepen  our  sorrow. — We 
think  of  the  dead  as  alive  in  moments  of  sadness 1 

CHAPTER  IL 

CAUSES   or   SORROW. 

At  what  age  of  life  are  persons  most  sad  ? — The  thought  of  human  great- 
ness produces  sadness. — A  dark  picture.— Sorrow  brought  out  by  con- 
trast.— Sorrow  from  want  of  sympathy. — When  we  think  of  a  friend 
who  has  passed  away  we  feel  sad. — Sorrow  because  others  are  sinning 
and  sufifering  as  the  result  of  our  folly. — When  one  suffers  in  our  behalf 
our  heart  is  touched. — Sorrow  from  an  enslaved  will. — Sorrow  in  view  of 
a  wasted  life.— Why  do  the  dying  not  shed  tears,  while  the  hving  do? — 
Various  causes  of  sorrow. — If  we  feel  that  we  are  doing  anything  for  the 
last  time  we  feel  sad 19 

CHAPTER  III. 

THE  SORROW  OF  GREAT  MINDS. 

EUyah,  Dante,  and  Pascal.— The  introspective  mind  fashioned  for  grief. — 
The  manifold  power  of  great  minds  opens  up  ways  of  sorrow.— According 
to  the  fineness  of  the  mind  will  be  its  aptitude  to  suffer  grief. — Some 
infirmity  usually  belongs  to  the  greatest  men,  and  that  tends  to  breed 


yiii  CONTENTS. 

sadness.— Originality-may  be  made  the  occasion  of  sorrow. — A  person  of 
fine  imagination  is  likely  to  be  tinged  with  sadness. —Finished  ideals 
start  melancholy. — The  slow  march  of  truth  sadly  affects  a  gifted  mind. — 
To  see  the  mundane  life  of  so  many  of  our  race  is  saddening. — The  mys- 
terious nature  of  the  present  system  leads  to  pensive  thoughts.— The  cry 
of  the  soul  is,  when  will  the  morning  come? 87 

CHAPTEK  IV. 

SOKEOW  AND  HOME. 

The  greatest  joy  and  sorrow  connected  with  home. — Home  shaded  by  sin. — 
By  sickness.— Thinking  of  the  living  as  dead. — ^The  first  death. — A  pa- 
rent's grief  falling  upon  the  child.— Popular  music  having  words  re- 
lating to  mothers.- A  sudden  joy  ending  in  night. — Sorrow  when  leaving 
home. — Also  because  we  are  Uving  away  from  home. — Sorrow  as  modi- 
fied by  the  principle  of  association. — When  we  think  of  the  days  of  child- 
hood we  are  both  sad  and  pleased. — If  we  visit  the  scenes  of  our  youth 
we  have  pleasure  and  pain. — There  is  a  feeling  that  goes  with  us  through 
life  that  we  are  strangers 65 

CHAPTER  V. 

THE  LONELINESS  OF  THE  HUMAN    SPIBIT  AS  AFFECTINa  ITS   SOREOW. 

Our  individuality  points  to  a  solitude  of  existence. — So  does  accountabil- 
ity.—The  sohtary  nature  of  human  destiny. — Significance  of  reserve. — 
The  secrecy  of  man.— Repressed  sorrow. — Language  never  fully  unfolds 
sorrow.— Solitude  of  want 73 

CHAPTER  VL 


SOmiOW  AS    CONNECTED    WITH    THE    LOVE    THAT    SUBSISTS 
THE   SEXES. 

liOve  scenes  in  the  Bible,  with  their  tingo  of  sadness. — The  beginning  and 
manifestations  of  love. — The  sorrow  of  Icve  has  tenderness  and  pleas- 
vire. — The  literature  of  love  has  a  vein  of  sadness. — The  sorrow  which 
arises  from  being  crossed  in  love. — ^A  hero  who  killed  his  loved  one 
through  mistake.— The  tragic  love  of  Abelard  and  Heloise.— Sadness 
when  one  has  forsaken  us. — A  broken  heart 

CHAPTER  VII. 

THE  INVENTIVE   POWER   OF   SYMPATHETIC   SORROW. 

Invention  as  seen  in  philanthropic  efforts.— In  Christian  efforts.— Sorrow 
moves  us  to  save  men.— Organic  efforts  which  spring  from  sympathetic 


CONTENTS.  IX 

sorrow. — The  Cross  inventive. — Inventiveness  of  the  God-man. — Inven- 
tive emotion  multiplies  power. — The  inventive  characteristic  in  connec- 
tion with  death. — sympathetic  sadness  originating  dreams. — Also  fig- 
ures of  speech.— Also  many  literary  works, 103 

CHAPTEE  Vin. 

THE   MISEKY   OF  MAN  AS  DEEPENING  HIS   SOEEQ-W. 

Discontent.— -A  burden  upon  the  heart.— Disappointed  ambition.— If  a 
height  reached,  yet  not  happy. — Pride  a  source  of  misery. — Loss  as  a 
characteristic  of  souls.- The  attempt  to  lessen  misery  by  hope,— A  list  of 
evils. — Misery  intensifie  1  by  visions  of  good.— A  great  unhappiness . — 
Men  will  not  reveal  their  misery. — How  the  soul  holds  itself  to  its  mis- 
ery.— Is  there  a  misery  that  cannot  be  remembered  ? 120 

CHAPTER  IX. 

THE    SOEEOW  OF    CHILDEEN. 

The  infant  sighs  and  weeps. — Significance  of  uneasiness  in  a  child. — Chil- 
dren more  sad  than  they  seem. — Some  sad  without  realizing  it. — A 
pitiful  child  described  by  Victor  Hugo. — The  sad  look  even  in  sleep. — 
Dreams  of  children  painful. — Apparent  frivolousness  of  their  sorrow. — 
Causes  of  crying.- Children  saddened  by  the  deceptive. — Their  intense 
life  a  groundwork  for  sorrow. — Sadness  when  a  child  feels  that  it  will  die 
young... Sadness  from  having  done  wrong 136 

CHAPTER  X. 

THE  BZBIiE  AND  SOBEOW. 

Calmness  of  Bible  writers. — Calm  even  in  stating  the  sufferings  of  Christ. — 
The  same  when  mentioning  great  wickedness. — Aim  of  the  Bible  is  to 
develop  thoughtfulness. — Also  painful  emotion. — The  apocalyptic  nature 
of  Scripture  thought  will  start  sad  emotions. — Our  freedom  with  the 
Bible  is  not  conducive  to  deep  feeling. — The  higher  sorrow  of  the  Bible. — 
Pathetic  scenes. — The  book  of  Psalms  the  great  pathetic  book  of  the 
Bible. — Also  the  chief  devotional  book 154 

CHAPTER  XI. 

THE    WOEKING    OF  THAT    SOEEOW    WHICH    AEISES    BECAUSE    OF    THB 
DEAD. 

Sorrow  because  of  the  dead  may  unite  enemies. — Sorrow  and  indignation 
when  one  has  come  to  his  death  by  the  carelessness  or  crime  of  others. 


i  CONTENTS. 

A  forced  sorrow. — Sorrow  because  not  present  when  a  friend  died. — ^Is  a 

funeral  more  dreary  in  winter  than  in  summer  ? — The  sorrow  that  sickens 
at  the  show  of  funerals.— When  we  think  of  the  last  words  of  a  friend 
before  he  died  we  feel  sad. — Lamenting  and  soliloquizing  features  of 
sorrow. — ^Apostrophizing  the  dead 172 


CHAPTER  XII. 

THE  MAN  OF  SOKEOWS. 

One  holy  being  was  sorrowful. — ^Are  angels  and  God  sad  ? — Christ  had  sor- 
row because  he  was  hving  in  a  strange  land. — Because  he  had  to  face 
so  much  evil. — Sorrow  also  from  his  sympathy. — The  sori'ow  of  Christ 
was  connected  with  strong  judicial  emotion. — He  foresaw  the  evil  that 
was  to  come  upon  him,  and  was  sad. — Then  he  assumed  atoning  obli- 
gation, which  was  painful. — Did  Clirist  die  of  a  broken  heart  ? — ^It  is  an 
honor  to  sorrow  with  the  Saviour 190 


CHAPTER  Xm. 

THE   SOEEOW  THAT   IS   PLEASING. 

How  explain  tears  of  joy  ? — ^Why  do  we  love  to  brood  over  our  sadness  ? — ^A 
witchery  about  sadness  that  may  lead  to  disease. — The  reverie  of  sorrow 
pleasant. — We  have  a  pleasing  sadness  when  we  think  of  the  fine  traits  of 
a  departed  friend. — A  sweet  sigh.— The  smile  of  saduessi— Pensive  minds 
have  a  vein  of  humor. — A  pleasing  sadness  about  certain  speculative  in- 
quiries.— A  scene  of  sorrow  described  may  please  us,  while  if  we  behold 
the  scene  it  may  pain  us . — We  shrink  from  a  person  in  great  i)ain,  yet  if 
we  love  the  person,  that  holds  us  to  the  painful  object. — ^A  sad  object  may 
be  painful  to  one,  and  pleasant  to  another. — Does  suffering  in  itself  jjlease 
us  ? — We  find  pleasure  in  thinking  of  sorrows  that  are  like  our  own 205 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

SOEEOW  AS  A   CONSTITUENT  ELEMENT  OF  BELIGION. 

Borrow  is  found  in  penitence.— AH  moral  victories  connected  with  sorrow. — 
A  phase  of  sadness  in  solemnity. — Guilt  and  penitential  grief  distin- 
guished.—Sorrow  of  sympathy  and  sorrow  of  piety  distinguished. — Reli- 
gious men  who  have  no  tears. — Abnormal  piety  that  has  no  joy. — Sadness 
in  view  of  a  sinful  past. — EeUgion  not  all  sorrow,  though  no  religion  with- 
out sorrow. 


CONTENTS.  XI 

CHAPTER  XV. 

THE   SORROW  THAT  IS  BEAUTIFUIi. 

Very  painful  sorrow  not  beautiful. — Son:o\v  tlia*  starts  tears  is  more  beautiful 
than  sorrow  that  starts  ciying. — Tours  of  gratitude  beautiful. — The  tear  of 
joy  more  beautiful  than  the  tear  of  sorrow. — Sorrow  of  Jesus  beautilul. — 
So  also  is  the  sorrow  of  our  higher  nature. — A  beauty  about  i)euitential 
Borrow. — SjTnpathetic  sorrow  beautiful. — Meditative  sorrow  the  same. — 
Sorrow  that  blends  with  the  passive  virtues  is  beautilul 240 

CHAPTER  XVL 

SOEEOW  OF  DrFFEBFNT  RACES — THE  SORROW  THAT  IS  ENGENDERED  BY 
''        THE  BODY — LAWS  OF  SORROW. 

First,  sorrow  of  different  races :  a  rude  people  more  boisterous  in  their  sor- 
row than  a  cultivated. — Eastern  nations  more  impulsive  in  their  grief 
than  the  western. — A  fead  tone  peculiar  to  certain  races. — Passive  tribes 
do  not  have  such  a  volume  of  sorrow  as  the  positive. — The  great  mod- 
em nations  more  sad  than  the  ancient. — Secondly,  the  body  as  tending  to 
engender  sorrow :  Hereditary  evils,  diseased  liver,  stomach  out  of  order, 
too  much  blood,  nervousness,  depress  the  mind.— Secret  vice  a  leading 
cause  of  melancholy. — The  sadness  of  religious  people  which  springs 
from  a  diseased  body. — Thirdly,  laws  of  sorrow:  The  first  law  is,  that 
sadness  will  arise  from  a  sense  of  loss. — The  second  law  is,  that  sadness 
will  arise  from  evil 251 

CHAPTER  XVn. 

THE  BEARING   OF   SORROW  UPON   CERTAIN   OF  THE  HIGHER  THEMES  OF 
EXISTENCE. 

The  sorrow  of  the  spirit  and  its  constant  pain  arise  from  the  fact  that  man 
has  strayed  from  God. — The  idea  of  perfection  hovering  over  the  sad 
soul.— The  fixed  as  tending  to  steady  the  agitated  mind.— The  charm  of 
silence  to  the  sorrowful.— Some  persons  in  deep  sorrow  will  plunge  into 
an  indefinable  abyss  to  obtain  reUef.— Power  of  the  unseen.— Idea  of  an 
eternal  youth 269 

CHAPTER  XVin. 

SORROW  BECAUSE   OF  THE  SHADOWS   THAT  FALL  UPON    US  FROM  THE 
OTHER   LIFE. 

Presentiments. — The  niere  idea  of  an  immortal  existence  will  sadden  ufl. — 
Also  that  the  existence  is  untried. — The  possibility  of  being  lost  alarms 


xii  CONTENTS. 

the  soul.— Why  are  so  many  of  the  good  nncertain  about  their  fate?— Joy 
itself  is  tinged  with  sadness.— Unanswered  queries  touching  the  future 
may  depress  the  mind. — The  dark  side  of  eternity  affects  us  more  than 
the  bright.— That  the  wicked  will  see  themselves  to  be  wholly  evil  when 
they  reach  eternity  is  startUug. — Our  trouble  because  a  departed  friend 
may  be  lost.— If  I  have  injured  a  friend  who  is  dead  I  am  cut  to  the 
heart— The  vaia  attempt  of  many  to  banish  fear.— Sin  in  eternity  may 
dwarf  the  soul.— Fear  of  the  future  has  characterized  all  the  ages  of 

287 


CHAPTEB  XIX. 

THOUGHTS    ADDRESSED    TO    SOEROWING    PARENTS    RESPECTING   THEIR 
INFANT   CHILDREN   WHO   HAVE   PASSED  INTO   ETERNITY. 

The  sorrow  is  peculiar  which  arises  from  the  death  of  a  little  child. — The 
Bible  almost  silent  touching  the  fate  of  infants  in  eternity.— Perhaps  Uttle 
is  mentioned  because  all  is  well  with  them. — When  an  infant  reaches 
heaven  it  will  likely  be  placed  under  the  care  of  mature  minds. — Its  men- 
tal nature  will  be  quickened  when  it  enters  the  kingdom  of  life. — When  a 
child  has  died  we  should  not  always  think  of  it  as  a  child. — Will  the  Uttle 
one  be  taught  anything  about  this  earth  ? — Will  heaven  appear  as  its  na- 
tive land? 305 

CHAPTER  XX. 

THE  MINISTRY  OF   SORROW. 

Problem  of  sorrow. — Man  must  have  sorrow  if  he  has  joy. — Sorrow  is  really 
a  manifestation  of  divine  wisdom. — Sorrow  a  great  awaken  er. — Those 
epochal  periods  which  mark  a  higher  power  of  life  are  usually  preceded 
by  a  baptism  of  sorrow. — A  great  sorrow  is  a  well-compacted  means  of 
good. — It  reminds  us  that  life  is  a  discipUne. — God  frequently  breaks  up 
our  selfish  plans  through  the  agency  of  sorrow. — Sorrow  with  all  its  ad- 
vantages cannot  change  the  heart 322 

CHAPTER  XXI.      . 

SORROW  ALIiEVIATED    AND    DESTROYED. 

The  quiet  of  many  minds  is  simply  a  forgetting. — Sorrow  is  weakened  by- 
employment. — Having  a  body  to  be  cared  for.— a  brisk  walk. — Sleep. — 
Laughter. — Music— rriendship.— Nature  and  art. —Self-determination. — 


CONTENTS.  XUl 

Sorrow  is  cured  by  thinking  upon  exalted  topics. — By  an  application  of 
the  divine  remedy. — Overcoming  besetting  sins. — Laboring  in  goodness 
till  we  are  weary. — By  the  destruction  of  sin 336 

CHAPTEK  XXIL 

GOD  AND   HEAVEN  AS  THOUGHTS   OF  POWER  TO   THE  SOEKOWEUIj. 

Uniqueness  of  the  idea  of  God. — Calmness  of  God. — One  eternal  thought. — 
Latent  power  of  God. — How  the  presence  of  a  great  mind  gives  new 
life. — God  the  ultimate  being. — The  idea  of  heaven. — Heaven  as  a  place  of 
unimpeded  energy. — The^realm  of  ideal  blessedness. — The  land  where 
we  shall  meet  our  ranscmr  ed  friends. — The  ultimate  conception  of  heaven 
is  that  of  apUwti  where  all  is  riglit 356 


Z(^   0?  THDB 

[TJiriVBRSITY] 
SORROW. 


CHAPTER  I. 

CHABAGTEBISTICS  OF  SORROW, 

WHEN"  deep  sad  emotion  has  been  awak- 
ened in  the  mind  by  an  object,  that 
emotion  holds  the  mind  to  the  object.  Let  a 
father  be  ushered  into  a  room  where  he  be- 
holds his  son  lying  dead,  whom  he  expected 
to  see  alive  and  well, — that  father  will  be 
quite  unable  to  think  of  any  other  object 
but  his  son.  It  seems  to  be  a  law  of  all  the 
emotions  that  when  they  are  strung  they  hold 
the  mind  with  steady  power  to  their  varied 
objects.  If  I  love  most  ardently  any  specific 
person  or  pursuit  in  life,  that  person  or  pur- 
suit is  ever  before  me.  Let  me  be  greatly 
terrified  while  sailing  the  ocean  in  view  of 


2  SOBKOW. 

probable  shipwreck,  then  the  dread  imagery 
of  shipwreck  settles  around  my  soul.  Is  sin 
causing  me  to  feel  intensely,  eternity  alarm- 
ing me,  God  starting  sad  and  painful  emotions? 
then  I  think  of  nothing  but  sin,  eternity,  and 
God.  If  I  feel  little,  I  think  little.  Men 
are  depressed  or  elevated,  saved  or  lost,  by 
their  emotions. 

Many  sorrows  are  sharp  and  impulsive  at 
the  beginning.  Let  a  mother  receive  a  letter 
stating  that  her  daughter  is  dead ;  instantly 
she  bursts  into  tears.  Quite  likely  she  will 
cry  aloud,  having  neither  power  nor  inclina- 
tion to  restrain  herself.  There  may  be  people 
in  the  room  with  her,  but  she  heeds  not  their 
presence.  The  fountain  of  sorrow  has  been 
opened,  and  the  stream  rushes  forth  in  its 
own  way.  N'o  art  is  at  work  here.  The  sim- 
ple feeling  acts  according  to  its  own  law,  and 
speaks  in  its  own  native  language. 

After  a  season,  however,  the  sorrow  re- 
tires' and  the  person  is  more  reserved.  At 
this  stage,  the  grief  may  be  more  oppressive 
than  it  was  at  first,  though  outwardly  it  may 
seem  to  be  less.  The  reflective  faculty  is  now 
at  work  and  the  feelings  are  put  under  law, 
by  which  means  the  individual  is  more  still. 


Chaeacteeistics  of  Soerow.  3 

There  is  pain  from  the  fact  that  the  sorrow  is 
pressed  into  a  region  by  itself.  Conscious- 
ness also  has  come  into  play,  and  this  fasten- 
ing upon  the  sorrow,  there  is  felt  to  be  a 
greater  weight  upon  the  soul.  With  the 
thoughtfulness  of  the  mind,  there  is  a  clearer 
apprehension  of  that  which  caused  the  trouble, 
which  may  help  to  deepen  it.  Persons  just 
after  a  funeral  are  less  boisterous  in  their 
sorrow  than  they  were  before  ;  yet  to  say 
that  they  feel  less  is  not  true  :  the  whole 
scene  is  mentally  spread  out  around  them, 
and  they  may  even  feel  more.  The  desire 
now  is  to  shrink  back  into  themselves,  not 
caring  to  go  anywhere,  or  to  mingle  in  com- 
pany that  once  pleased  them.  Manifestations 
of  sympath}'-  are  very  grateful  to  persons  who 
are  bereaved.  The  kindness  of  friends  stays 
them  up.  They  feel  stronger  and  happier. 
Yet  if  many  calls  are  made  to  the  house  of 
mourning,  it  is  best  to  allow  the  sorrowful  to 
remain  by  themselves  ;  simply  tell  them  of  the 
kind  neighbors  who  came  to  sympathize  with 
them  in  their  distress.  To  be  compelled  to 
talk  with  each  visitor  about  one's  loss  would 
deepen  the  sorrow,  instead  of  diminishing  it. 
The  excited  mind  needs  rest 


4  Sorrow. 

There  is  another  stage,  and  that  is  when 
the  afflicted  person  comes  forth  from  his  retire- 
merit,  and  is  readj/  to  converse.  This  is  a  sign 
that  the  sorrow  is  not  so  deep  as  it  once  was. 
New  feelings  are  starting  up  in  the  mind,  and 
there  is  more  ease  and  freedom.  Business  is 
now  attended  to  with  more  heart,  and  perhaps 
there  is  more  carefulness  about  life  than  for- 
merly. 

Again,  one  sorrow  may  expel  another  from 
the  soul.  Here  is  a  man  depressed  in  his 
mind  by  reason  of  some  loss — say  of  money. 
All  at  once  a  much-loved  friend  is  taken  dan- 
gerously ill.  His  anxiety  on  that  friend's  ac- 
count is  so  great  that  he  forgets  both  the  loss 
and  the  sorrow.  Even  in  the  common  work- 
ing of  our  mind,  we  may  remember  how 
frequently  one  state  of  sadness  has  been  ex- 
pelled by  another.  By  reason  of  shifting 
trains  of  thought,  new  emotions  appear  and 
disappear  with  great  rapidity. 

Still,  again,  two  sorrovjs  will  sometimes 
unite,  and  thus  intensify  the  anguish  of  the 
soul.  On  the  one  hand,  my  house  burns  to  the 
ground  and  poverty  stares  me  in  the  face  ; 
whQe  on  the  other,  my  nearest  friend  dies  j  and 
thus  a  double  woe  presses  me  to  the  dust.     In- 


Chaeacteeistics  of  Soeeow.  5 

stead  of  two  evils,  there  may  be  any  number 
above  that.  The  collective  force  of  a  long 
train  may  strike  and  sink  the  soul.  When  re- 
port succeeded  report,  teUing  Job  of  the  loss  of 
his  cattle,  his  servants,  and  his  sons,  we  can  im- 
derstand  how  this  must  have  affected  him. 
Evil  rose  upon  evil  till  the  whole  culminated 
and  fell  upon  the  soul  of  the  patient  man. 
There  are  cases  also  when  a  sorrow  that  has 
tarried  long  with  us  is  now  about  to  give  way ; 
but,  just  as  it  is  leaving,  it  is  sent  back  into  the 
heart,  there  to  mingle  with  a  new  sorrow  that 
has  just  appeared.  A  son  clad  in  mourning  for 
a  father,  who  had  been  dead  two  years,  is  about 
to  take  it  off ;  but  at  that  particular  time  the 
mother  dies  ;  which  fact  awakens  the  previous 
sorrow  and  connects  it  with  one  that  is  present ; 
the  garb  of  mourning  being  now  the  symbol  of 
a  double  grief 

Furthermore,  though  two  sorrows  may  agi- 
tate the  same  heart,  the  heavier  sorrow  may  have 
no  tears,  while  the  lighter  one  has.  This  seems 
like  a  contradiction  ;  and  yet  it  is  a  fact  of  na- 
ture. The  following  incident  will  illustrate  the 
point :  *'  Cambyses,  when  he  conquered  Egypt, 
made  Psammenitus  the  king  prisoner  ;  and  for 
trying  his  constancy,  ordered  his  daughter  to 


6  Sorrow. 

be  dressed  in  the  habit  of  a  slave,  and  to  be 
employed  in  bringing  water  from  the  river ;  his 
son  also  was  led  to  execution  with  a  halter  about 
his  neck.  The  Egyptians  vented  their  sorrow 
in  tears  and  lamentations ;  Psammenitus  only, 
with  a  downcast  eye,  remained  silent.  After- 
ward meeting  one  of  his  companions,  a  man  ad- 
vanced in  years,  who,  being  plundered  of  all, 
was  begging  alms,  he  wept  bitterly,  calling  him 
by  his  name.  Cambyses,  struck  with  wonder, 
demanded  an  answer  to  the  following  question : 
*'  Psammenitus,  thy  master  Cambyses,  is  de- 
sirous to  know,  why,  after  thou  hadst  seen  thy 
daughter  so  ignominiously  treated  and  thy  son 
led  to  execution,  without  exclaiming  or  weep- 
ing, thou  shouldst  be  so  highly  concerned  for  a 
poor  man,  no  way  related  to  thee  ?"  Psamme- 
nitus returned  the  following  answer:  "  Son  of 
Cyrus,  the  calamities  of  my  family  are  too  great 
to  leave  me  the  power  of  weeping ;  but  the  mis- 
fortunes of  a  companion,  reduced  in  his  old  age 
to  want  of  bread,  is  a  fit  subject  for  lamenta- 
tion. "* 

It  is  quite  singular  that  a  great  sorrow  will 
cause   some   persons  to  sink  into  sleep,  while 

*  Quoted  in  Karnes'  Elements  of  Criticism,  p.  236. 


Chaeacteristics  of  Sorkow.  7 

others  it  will  keep  awake.  When  Elijah  was 
afraid  of  losing  his  life  at  the  hand  of  Jezebel, 
and  a  feeling  of  discouragement  spread  over  his 
mind  because  of  the  general  wickedness  of  the 
people,  he  yet  lay  down  amidst  the  solitude  of 
the  desert  and  fell  asleep.  The  disciples  who 
were  in  the  garden  with  Jesus  during  his  agony 
**  slept  for  sorrow."  Dante  mentions  his  own 
experience  in  these  words:  "Betaking  myself 
to  my  chamber,  where  I  could  give  vent  to  my 
passion  unheard,  I  feU  asleep  weeping  like  a 
beaten  child."  All  know  that  it  is  a  very  com- 
mon thing  for  children  to  cry  themselves  to 
sleep.  There  is  a  certain  heaviness  about  sor- 
row which,  united  with  the  drowsiness  of  nature 
at  night,  may  terminate  in  slumber.  There  is  a 
class  of  persons,  however,  who  are  kept  awake 
by  the  excitement  of  grief.  David  says :  "  I  am 
weary  with  my  groaning  ;  all  the  night  make  I 
my  bed  to  swim  ;  I  water  my  couch  with  my 
tears."  Priam,  in  his  address  to  Achilles,  thus 
speaks : 

"Dismiss  me  now,  illustrious  chief,  to  rest, 
And  lie  me  down,  in  gentle  slumbers  wrapp'd; 
For  never  have  mine  eyes  been  closed  in  sleep. 
Since  by  thy  hand  my  gallant  son  was  slain  : 


8  Sorrow. 

But  groaning  still  I  brood  upon  my  woes, 
And  in  my  court  with  dust  my  head  defile."* 

Almost  every  person  is  acquainted  with  the 
fact  that  if  we  awake  during  the  night,  while 
the  mind  is  in  trouble,  it  is  exceedingly  difficult 
to  fall  asleep  again.  Persons  also  who  have 
friends  suffering,  perhaps  dying,  can  sit  up 
night  after  night  with  them,  the  painful  interest 
of  the  soul  keeping  them  awake. 

It  is  worthy  of  our  attention  also  that  if  one 
is  in  deep  sorrow  he  is  apt  to  use  too  strong  lan- 
guage when  describing  his  condition.  The  mind 
at  such  a  time  is  simply  looking  at  one  thing  and 
feehng  intensely  about  it,  and  so,  as  matter  of 
course,  all  expressions  are  strong.  If  a  man 
says.  All  my  hope  is  gone,  I  am  full  of  sorrow,  I 
shall  never  see  the  light, — ^these  various  state- 
ments are  not  strictly  true.  The  words  all,  full^ 
and  never  see,  cannot  be  understood  literally  ; 
they  simply  express  great  sorrow  of  spirit.  When 
David  uttered  the  lament,  "  My  life  is  spent  with 
grief  and  my  years  with  sighing,"  we  cannot  in- 
terpret such  language  as  meaning  that  grief  and 
sighing  filled  out  the  whole  measure  of  his  years  ; 
because  in  the  very  psalm  from  which  the  verse 

*  Lord  Derby's  Homer,  vol.  ii.  p.  448. 


Characteristics  of  Sorrow.  9 

is  taken  he  says,  *'  In  thee,  0  Lord,  do  I  put  my 
trust ;  I  will  be  glad  and  rejoice  in  thy  mercy." 
Dr.  Channiug,  when  he  was  a  young  man,  says 
of  himself :  "  I  am  sensible  that  my  happy  days 
are  passed,  and  I  can  only  weep  for  them." 
That  was  rather  too  dark  ;  for  at  another  period 
of  his  life  he  uses  this  language  :  "I  feel  a  no- 
ble enthusiasm  spreading  through  my.  frame  ; 
my  bosom  pants  with  a  great  half-conceived  and 
indescribable  sentiment  j  I  seem  inspired  with  a 
surrounding  deity."  A  degree  of  relief  comes 
to  us  when  we  know  that  many  a  careworn 
spirit  is  not  so  unhappy  as  its  thoughts  would 
seem  to  imply.  It  is  seldom  that  one  feeling 
sweeps  the  whole  mind.  A  man  may  have  emo- 
tions of  joy  and  thankfulness  at  the  very  time 
he  is  struck  down  by  a  wave  of  sorrow. 

Another  characteristic  of  sorrow  is,  that  it 
aSiliates  with  simple  language  and  a  natural  style. 
The  words  must  flow  out  of  the  heart  as  if  they 
were  the  echoes  of  grief.  It  has  been  the  opin- 
ion of  certain  writers  that  words  of  many  syl- 
lables are  the  best  fitted  to  express  a  melancholy 
state  of  mind.  I  think  the  opinion  may  be 
called  in  question.  Many-jointed  words  look 
as  if  they  were  the  fruit  of  critical  study,  rather 
than  the  out-flow  of  the   feeling  heart.     The 


10  Sorrow. 

long-sounding  style  seems  to  be  made;  it 
does  not  grow.  The  taste  is  artificial  that  is 
pleased  with  it.  Our  most  important  words  are 
short.  Take  these  as  samples  :  Soul  and  body, 
heart  and  mind,  good  and  evil,  truth  and  grace, 
faith  and  love,  hope  and  fear,  joy  and  grief,  life 
and  death,  lost  and  saved.  How  very  striking 
it  is  that  the  word  God  is  so  small ;  and  this 
not  only  in  English,  but  in  many  other  lan- 
guages !  The  sensationalism  of  the  present  has 
destroyed  the  beautiful  simpHcity  of  language  : 
If  one  will  but  try,  he  can  treat  the  most  diffi- 
cult as  well  as  the  most  tender  themes  through 
the  medium  of  short  words.  There  are  few 
writers  that  excel  Ossian  in  his  language  of  sor- 
row. His  style  is  very  simple.  Both  words 
and  sentences  are  short.  Note  this  passage  : 
*'  The  wind  and  the  rain  are  past :  calm  is  the 
noon  of  day.  The  clouds  are  divided  in  heaven. 
Over  the  green  hills  flies  the  inconstant  sun. 
Red  through  the  stony  vale  comes  down  the 
stream  of  the  hill.  Sweet  are  thy  murmurs,  0 
stream !  but  more  sweet  is  the  voice  I  hear.  It 
is  the  voice  of  Alpin,  the  son  of  song,  mourning 
for  the  dead.  Bent  is  his  head  of  age  ;  red  his 
tearful  eye .  Alpin,  thou  son  of  song,  why 
alone    on  the   silent  hill?     Why   complainest 


Chaeactebistics  or  Sokkow.  11 

thou,  as  a  blast  in  the  wood ;  as  a  wave  on  the 
lonely  shore  ?  My  tears,  0  Ryno  !  are  for  the 
dead ;  my  voice  for  those  who  have  passed 
away.  Tall  thou  art  on  the  hill ;  fair  among 
the  sons  of  the  vale.  But  thou  shalt  fall  like 
Morar  ;  the  mourner  shalt  sit  on  thy  tomb. 
The  hills  shall  know  thee  no  more  ;  thy  bow 
shall  lie  in  the  hall  unstrung."* 

Sorrow  has  a  peculiar  relation  to  time. 
When  we  sigh  to  reach  those  we  love,  time 
seems  long.  If  we  are  on  a  journey,  sorrow 
has  great  power  to  press  us  ahead,  that  we  may 
meet  those  the  sooner  who  are  dear  to  us.  If 
we  are  delayed  on  the  way,  that  delay  is  most 
painful :  the  time  we  have  to  wait  seems  double 
its  length.  If  a  father  receives  the  intelligence 
that  his  son  at  a  distant  place  is  dying,  he  would 
bound  there  with  one  leap  if  that  were  possible. 
All  painful  emotions  make  time  to  appear  long. 
A  night  of  sorrow  is  a  long  night.  If  the  sorrow, 
however,  contains  the  element  of  pleasure,  time 
will  appear  shorter  than  usual.  Let  there  be 
a  religous  meeting  which  is  marked  by  deep  so- 
lemnity, many  of  the  worshipers  bemg  in  tears, — 
that  meeting,  though  it  may  be  continued  for 

*  The  Songs  of  Selma. 


12  SOBBOW. 

hours,  will  not  seem  long.  This  relation  of 
sorrow  to  time  may  be  modified  somewhat  by 
the  age  of  the  person.  To  the  old,  time  is  short ; 
to  the  yomig,  it  is  long.  We  may  say  of  sorrow 
that  it  generally  has  a  past.  We  look  back  to 
that  which  has  caused  our  grief.  The  punish- 
ment of  a  prisoner  is  not  found  merely  in  the 
daily  toil ;  the  memory  that  opens  the  volume 
of  the  past  and  compels  the  soul  to  read  it,  brings 
pain  to  that  soul.  It  is  the  remark  of  Jean 
Paul  that  "a  dying  man  knows  no  present, — 
nothing  but  the  future  and  the  past.'^  There  is 
much  truth  in  this  statement. 

It  is  the  nature  of  sorrow  to  cast  its  shadoio 
upon  other  objects.  The  soul  in  this  way  lives  in 
a  world  of  its  own  creation,  where  all  things 
speak  the  same  language,  wear  the  same  dress, 
and  have  the  same  family  hkeness.  In  the 
house  all  is  sad.  The  very  walls  and  pictures 
are  shaded.  Sorrow  seems  to  be  written  on  the 
faces  of  our  children  as  we  behold  them  asleep ; 
upon  the  books  that  he  here  and  there  ;  upon  the 
green  fields  and  the  eternal  sky.  We  almost  ima- 
gine that  the  trees  that  stand  before  our  door  are 
thoughtful  and  pensive,  that  the  beautiful  flowers 
look  serious  and  sad,  that  the  stream  which  mur- 
murs  along  sends  forth  strains  of  melancholy, 


Characteristics  of  Sorrow.  13 

and  that  the  music  of  the  birds  has  notes  of  sor- 
row. A  great  many  bright  things  look  dark  to 
us  just  because  we  are  in  the  midst  of  trouble. 
Is  it  not  a  fact  also,  that  there  is  that  about  na- 
ture which  tends  to  express  all  our  mental 
states  ?  If  we  are  cheerful,  we  think  of  the 
smiling  sun  ;  if  we  are  thankful,  the  rich  per- 
fume of  the  garden  becomes  a  symbol ;  if  we 
are  in  a  state  of  peace,  the  quiet  without  matches 
well  with  the  quiet  within.  Then,  again,  if  we 
are  angry,  the  wild  storm  is  the  emblem  of  our 
rage  ;  if  we  are  sad,  we  think  of  the  cloud  ;  and 
if  we  are  lost  in  despair,  we  point  to  the 
thick  darkness. 

There  is  a  sorrow  which  we  cannot  refer  to 
any  particular  cause.  It  sometimes  is  found  in 
the  soul  as  an  impulse,  a  feeling,  or  a  state  ; 
but  just  how  it  comes  we  know  not.  The  truth 
is,  we  have  a  variety  of  emotions  at  different 
times  which  we  cannot  explain.  Influences 
subtle  and  secret  in  their  nature  no  doubt  move 
upon  us.  I  retire  to  bed  at  night  with  a  good 
degree  of  composure,  sleep  soundly,  yet  I  awake 
in  tlie  morning  quite  sad.  Just  how  this  is  I 
cannot  tell.  That  there  is  a  latent  sorrow  with- 
in us  all,  seems  quite  reasonable.  This  may  be 
touched  and  moved  at  any  hour,  whether  of 


14  SOREOW. 

night  or  day.  There  may  be  times  when  fallen 
spirits  set  in  motion  our  hidden  grief ;  and  so 
we  sigh  without  knowing  just  what  the  real 
cause  is.  Or  the  great  sub-conscious  states  of 
the  soul  may  be  at  work — these,  sending  up  to 
the  surface  messengers  of  sadness,  even  as 
the  bubbles   form  on  the  top  of  the  stream. 

The  ability  to  realize  a  foreign  sorrow^  so  as 
to  make  it  our  own,  is  a  characteristic  of  all  hu- 
man beings.  How  is  it  that  we  can  be  made  to 
feel  sad  while  reading  a  work  oi fiction  ?  How 
can  that  which  is  purely  imaginary  start  sorrow  ? 
The  reason  is,  that,  for  the  time  being,  what  we 
read  seems  to  be  true.  So  much  are  we  taken 
up  with  the  story  that  we  forget  the  fiction,  and 
so  it  affects  us  as  if  it  were  no  fiction  at  all.  It 
is  very  much  the  same  when  we  are  saddened 
in  view  of  a  man's  troubles  which  are  mentioned 
to  us  ;  we  feel  for  the  moment  as  if  we  were 
standing  in  his  place,  thinking  as  he  thought, 
and  cast  down  with  sorrow  as  he  was  himself. 
Whenever  we  are  greatly  attracted  by  the  state- 
ments of  an  author,  whether  these  be  imaginary 
or  truthful,  we  seem  to  lose  our  identity,  and 
are  pleased  or  pained,  just  as  the  persons  were 
that  we  are  reading  about.  I  have  noticed 
that  when  acts  of  great  self-denial  are  stated  with 


Characteristics  of  Sorrow.  15 

life-like  power  to  a  congregation,  the  assembly 
will  be  instantly  affected  to  tears.  The  reason 
I  suppose  to  be,  that  the  persons  entered  with 
heartfelt  interest  into  the  scene  which  was  por- 
trayed before  them,  realizing  quite  truly  the 
feelings  of  the  disinterested  individual ;  so  that 
they  felt  for  those  who  needed  help  very  much  as 
the  person  did  who  helped  them  himself.  It  is 
somewhat  curious  also  that  if  we  chance  to  meet 
at  any  time  the  son  of  an  individual  who  once 
did  us  a  kindness,  the  sight  of  that  son  will  affect 
us  tenderly.  Dr.  Woodbridge,  whose  mother 
was  a  daughter  of  President  Edwards,  mentions 
an  incident  which  wUl  illustrate  this  :  ''A  few 
years  ago,  in  a  neighboring  congregation,"  he 
remarks,  ''when  I  preached  on  a  particular 
occasion,  I  met  a  man  advanced  in  life,  who 
told  me  he  was  brought  up  in  Stockbridge,  and 
wanted  to  know  my  parentage.  When  he  found 
I  was  the  son  of  Lucy  Edwards,  he  lifted  up  his 
voice  and  wept  so  loudly  as  to  frighten  us  all. 
*  God  bless  you  sir  !'  said  he,  '  are  you  a  son  of 
Lucy  Edwards  ?  Her  face  seems  to  me  to  be  the 
face  of  an  angel.  I  was  a  poor  lad  in  Stockbridge, 
and  she  taught  me  to  read  and  write,  and  incul- 
cated on  me  the  sublime  lessons  of  Christian 
morality  and  religion  ;  and  her  kindness  to  me 


16  SORKOW. 

has  been  the  cause  of  all  the  respectability  I  have 
enjoyed  in  life.'  He  then  put  liis  withered  arms 
around  me,  and  wept  like  a  child."*  It  is  no 
doubt  a  fact  that  one  person  will  feel  sorrow  in 
given  circumstances,  while  another  person  will 
not.  A  commencement  day  at  college  has  ap- 
peared to  me  to  be  a  time  for  starting  pensive 
reflections  in  the  mind  of  a  spectator.  Here  is 
a  company  of  young  men  about  to  graduate  / 
full  of  excitement  and  hilarity  ;  full  of  hope  ; 
we  at  once  think  of  the  difficulties  before  them, 
and  the  sorrows  that  will  cut  into  their  liearts  ; 
and  as  we  think  of  these  we  feel  sad.  In  such  a 
case  we  enter  more  truthfully  into  the  future  of 
these  young  men,  than  they  are  able  to  do  them- 
selves, and  by  this  principle  of  substitution 
we  have  feelings  which  wiU  be  theirs  by  and 

by- 

The  weeping  of  a  friend  in  certain  circum- 
stances will  deepen  our  sorrow.  We  draw  the 
inference  from  the  weeping  that  he  cannot  help 
us.  When  the  captain  of  a  vessel  is  in  tears, 
the  ship  is  about  to  sink.  Let  a  hungry  child 
see  its  mother  weeping  when  it  asks  for  bread  ; 
the  quick  thought  of  the  child  is,  that  the  last 

*  Autobiography  of  a  Blind  Minister,  p.  13. 


Characteeistics  of  Somiow.  17 

morsel  has  been  eaten,  and  means  there  is 
not  to  get  more.  If  a  sick  son  sees  his 
father  wipe  his  eyes  after  conversing  with  a 
neighbor  at  the  door,  he  will  very  natur- 
ally imagine  that  death  is  not  far  distant. 
It  is  of  considerable  moment  sometimes  for 
the  leader  of  a  great  enterprise  to  hide  his 
fears.  If  they  were  revealed,  they  might  dis- 
courage each  attendant,  and  thus  make  failure  a 
certainty. 

There  are  times  when  our  friends  who  have 
died  seem  to  us  still  to  be  living.  Ideas  based 
upon  this  thought  course  their  way  through  the 
mind.  Shakespeare  points  to  this  characteristic 
in  the  following  Imes  : 

"  If  she  comes  in,  she'll  sure  speak  to  my  wife — 
My  wife ! — my  wife — what  wife  ? — I  have  no  wife  ! 
Oh  unsupportable !     Oh  heavy  hour!" 

During  the  passage  of  some  fleeting  moment 
we  think  of  a  seat  that  is  to  be  occupied,  a 
piece  of  work  that  is  to  be  done,  a  voice  that 
is  to  fall  upon  our  ear  as  it  has  fallen  thousands 
of  times  before.  To  bury  such  a  vast  number 
of  associations  as  we  have  had  of  the  living,  in 
the  grave  with  the  dead,  is  not  easy.  The 
wife  who  for  years  has  been  accustomed  to  see 


18  SOKROW. 

her  husband  come  home  from  his  labor  at  the 
close  of  each  day,  will  naturally  think  that  he 
must  enter  the  house  as  usual,  though  he  has 
gone  to  return  not  again.  The  father  who  has 
always  waked  up  his  children  in  the  morning, 
might,  through  the  force  of  habit,  call  upon 
Mary  to  arise  ;  but  Mary  sleeps  not  in  the 
home  of  her  early  years, — in  the  grave  only  she 
rests. 


CHAPTER  ir. 

CAUSES  OF  SORROW, 

AT  what  age  of  life  do  persons  have  the  most 
sorrow  ?  Certainly  not  during  the  period 
of  childhood  and  youth ;  for  the  mind  then  is  not 
matured,  and  things  are  not  seen  in  their  true 
light.  As  it  respects  aged  people,  we  know 
that  they  look  more  on  the  dark  side  than  for- 
merly ;  they  are  more  inclined  to  be  low  spirit- 
ed ;  the  decaying  state  of  the  body  tends  to  de- 
press the  mind.  I  do  not  think,  however,  that 
the  aged  are  the  most  sad.  Feeling,  which  is  a 
necessary  condition  of  sorrow,  is  not  so  strong 
and  fresh  in  old  persons  as  it  once  was.  There 
is  something  of  the  prosaic  and  the  tame  about 
them.  It  is  difficult  to  move  them  to  tears,  or  to 
excite  in  them  ardent  emotion  of  any  kind.  The 
wings  of  the  aspirations  also  have  been  clipped, 


20  Sorrow. 

and  the  mind  has  a  shiggish  and  heavy  movement. 
The  men  of  grief,  as  it  appears  to  me,  are  those 
who  think  and  feel  with  more  intensity  than 
the  aged  are  capable  of  doing.  A  little  beyond 
the  prime  of  life,  I  should  say,  is  the  time 
when  the  sorrow  of  the  soul  is  the  most  op- 
pressive. Then  there  is  a  sad,  lieavy  conscious- 
ness,— the  true  melancholy  of  man.  The  wail 
of  sorrow  that  has  come  down  to  us  has  broken 
forth  from  spirits  that  were  not  old  ;  and  the 
literature  of  sorrow  has  been  written,  to  a  great 
extent,  by  men  who  had  not  seen  the  age  of 
seventy. 

One  cause  of  sorrow,  at  least  to  a  thoughtful 
mind,  is  human  greatness.  Earthly  glory  is  a 
melancholy  affair.  A  great  army  may  appear 
splendid,  yet  it  is  surrounded  with  sadness. 
When  we  look  seriously  at  a  great  city  we  sigh. 
The  wealth  and  the  poverty,  the  dazzling  show 
and  the  misery,  the  excitement  and  rush  of  peo- 
ple by  day  and  the  mysterious  gloom  and  bro- 
ken silence  of  the  city  by  night,  throw  around 
the  soul  the  covering  of  melancholy.  Wlien  we 
think  of  the  fall  of  kingdoms  we  feel  sad.  Images 
seem  to  look  out  upon  us  from  the  darkness  of 
the  past, — Nineveh  and  Babylon,  Tyre  and 
Eg3^pt.     A  great  mind  led  astray  is  saddening. 


Causes  of  Sorrow.  21 

If  a  person  of  exalted  attainments  has  been 
forced  into  a  state  of  oblivion,  with  no  opportu- 
nity to  unfold  the  treasures  of  the  soul,  or  with 
the  spirit  broken,  it  may  be  by  the  severity  of 
the  circumstances,  the  very  sight  of  such  an  one 
awakens  painful  emotions. 

Let  us  look  at  a  picture  of  extreme  wretched- 
ness presented  to  us  by  a  London  physician. 
"  The  room  which  I  entered,"  he  remarks,  **was 
a  garret,  and  the  sloping  ceiling  made  it  next  to 
impossible  to  move  anywhere  in  an  upright 
position.  The  mockery  of  a  window  had  not 
one  entire  pane  of  glass  in  it ;  but  some  of  the 
holes  were  stopped  with  straw,  rags,  and  brown 
paper,  while  one  or  two  were  not  stopped  at  all ; 
There  was  not  an  article  of  furniture  in  the 
place  ;  no,  not  a  bed,  chair,  or  table  of  any 
kind.  The  floor  was  littered  with  dirty  straw, 
such  as  swine  might  scorn.  The  rushlight 
eclipsed  the  dying  glow  of  the  few  embers,  so 
that  there  was  not  even  the  ajp^earance  of  % 
fire.  And  this  in  a  garret  facing  the  north — 
on  one  of  the  bitterest  and  bleakest  nights  I 
ever  knew.  My  heart  sunk  within  me  at  wit- 
nessing such  frightful  misery  and  destitution. 
The  mother  of  the  family  was  a  mere  bundle 
of  filthy  rags — a    squalid,    shivering,   starved 


22  Sorrow. 

creature,  holding  to  her  breast  a  half-naked 
infant ;  her  daughter  *  Sal  ^  was  in  like  plight 
— a  sullen,  ill-favored  slut  of  about  eigh- 
teen, who  seemed  ashamed  of  being  seen. 
She  was  squatting,  with  a  little  creature  cow- 
ering close  beside  her,  in  one  corner  of  the 
room,  both  munching  ravenously  the  bread 
which  my  money  had  purchased  for  the  fam- 
ily. The  miserable  father  was  seated  on  the 
floor,  with  his  back  propped  against  the  op- 
posite side  of  the  fire-place  to  that  which  I  oc- 
cupied, and  held  a  child  clasped  loosely  in  his 
arms,  though  he  had  plainly  fallen  asleep. 
The  child  was  trying  to  push  the  corner  of  its 
crust  into  the  father's  mouth,  chuckling  and 
crowing  the  while,  as  is  the  wont  of  children 
who  find  a  passive  subject  for  their  drolleries. 
I  moved  from  my  seat  towards  him.  His 
wife  took  down  the  candle  and  held  it  above 
her  husband's  head,  and  tried  to  awake  him. 
He  did  not  stir.  The  child,  regardless  of  us, 
was  still  playing  with  his  passive  features.  A 
glimpse  of  the  awful  truth  flashed  across  my 
mind.  The  man  was  dead.  He  must  have 
expired  nearly  an  hour  ago,  for  his  face  and 
hands  were  quite  cold.  It  was  fearful  to  see 
the  ghastly  pallor  of  the  features,  the  fixed  pu- 


Causes  of  Sorrow.  23 

pils,  the  glassy  glare  downwards ! — Was  it  not 
a  subject  for  a  painter  ?  The  living  child  in 
the  arms  its  dead  father,  unconsciously  sport- 
ing with  a  corpse  F'* 

Sorrow  is  brought  out  by  contrast.  I  can 
understand  very  well  how  one  might  feel  sad 
while  looking  at  a  beautiful  landscape,  gazing 
at  contented  brute  creatures,  listening  to  the 
song  of  birds,  and  catching  the  hum  of  insects 
as  they  play  in  the  air, — the  joy  of  all  these 
makes  one  think  the  more  of  his  pain.  A 
quiet  sabbath-day  might  influence  the  mind  in 
the  same  manner.  A  thought  also  of  rest  which 
no  one  has  yet  found,  waters  of  peacefulness 
flowing  from  their  eternal  fountains,  a  home 
where  evil  is  not  known,  a  personal  welcome 
by  the  Saviour  as  one  enters  the  city  of  God, 
may  cause  the  soul  to  heave  forth  a  sigh.  Be- 
holding an  infant  asleep,  a  child  praying,  a 
saintly  man  quiet  in  the  midst  of  insult,  may 
start  sad  emotions.  "I  once  kuew^  a  lady," 
remarks  Coleridge,  "  who,  after  the  loss  of  a 
lovely  child,  continued  for  several  days  in  a 
state  of  seeming  indifference,  the  weather,  at 
the  same  time,  as  if  in  unison  with  her,  being 

*  Warren's  Diary  of  a  Physician,  vol.  ii.  p.  90. 


24  SOEROW. 

calm,  tliougli  gloomy  ;  till  one  morning  a  burst 
of  sunshine  breaking  in  upon  her,  and  sudden- 
ly lighting  up  the  room  where  she  was  sitting, 
she  dissolved  at  once  mto  tears,  and  wept 
passionately."*  That  was  the  effect  of  contrast. 
A  widow  looks  more  sad  to  us  if  she  has  an 
infant  in  her  arms  than  if  she  has  none.  The 
child  looking  up  into  the  mother's  face,  without 
understanding  the  sorrow  that  reveals  itself 
there,  seems  to  make  that  sorrow  all  the  greater 
by  the  contrast.  Homer  awakens  our  sympathy 
for  Andromache  by  representing  her  as  engaged 
in  household  duties,  and  preparing  for  the  re- 
turn of  her  husband  ;  she  not  being  aware  that 
he  was  dead. 

*****"  Naught  as  yet  was  knowD 

To  Hector's  wife  ;  to  her  no  messenger 

Had  brought  the  tidings,  that  without  the  walls 

Remained  her  husband  ;  in  her  house  withdrawn 

A  web  she  wove,  all  purple,  double  woof, 

With  varied  flow'rs  in  rich  embroidery, 

And  to  her  neat-hair'd  maids  she  gave  command 

To  place  the  largest  caldrons  on  the  fire, 

That  with  warm  baths,  returning  from  the  fight, 

Hector  might  be  refreshed  ;  unconscious  she 

That  by  Achilles'  hand,  with  Pallas'  aid 

Far  from  the  bath,  was  godlike  Hector  slain."f 

*  Works,  vol.  ii.  p.  480,  Harper's  ed. 
t  Lord  Derby's  Homer,  vol.  ii.  p.  358. 


Causes  of  Soreow.  25 

How  much  of  sorrow  arises  from  want  of 
sympathy !  An  encouraging  thought,  praise 
when  it  is  suitable,  a  simple  feeling  of  interest 
shown  in  any  way,  would  revive  and  brighten 
many  a  downcast  spirit.  Human  beings  are  at 
fault  because  they  do  not  give  expression  to 
their  pleasant  feelings  :  the  unpleasant  show- 
ing themselves  too  easily.  How  much  of  sad- 
ness is  caused  by  roughness !  We  are  not 
made  of  cast-iron.  It  is  the  dignity  of  our 
nature  that  we  can  feel.  Many  have  cul- 
tivated a  clumsy  manner  without  knowing  it. 
They  trample  upon  fine  feelings  just  as  they 
trample  upon  insects  when  they  walk,  not  be- 
hig  aware  of  what  they  are  doing.  There 
are  men  also  who  mean  to  be  independent, 
mean  to  speak  their  mind  ;  such  are  frequently 
quite  troublesome.  The  blunt,  defiant , words 
make  many  a  spirit  to  shrink  back,  many  a 
heart  to  bleed.  Numbers  are  longing  to  hear 
a  gentle  word.  They  want  kindness.  They 
sigh  because  they  find  it  not.  Tliink  of  the 
amount  of  sadness  that  is  caused  Iby  fretful- 
ness  and  passion !  There  is  a  surliness  of  men 
and  women,  and  even  a  spiteful  silence  that 
withers   hearts   quite  as   effectually  as   wrath 


26  Sorrow. 

poured  out.     Some  would  prefer  a  rough  word 
to  a  rough  look. 

There  is  a  great  deal  of  sorrow  also  from 
imagined  evil.  Since  the  present  has  so  much 
trouble,  it  is  strange  that  men  will  rush  into 
the  future  to  gain  more.  Although  all  want  to 
be  happy,  yet -it  would  seem  as  if  all  wanted  to 
be  miserable.  Place  human  beings  in  the  best 
position,  and  they  will  instantly  dream  of  evil. 
If  men  have  no  trouble,  they  will  be  sure  to 
make  it.  This  tendency  of  mind  is  not  without 
meaning.  The  soul  has  strayed  from  Grod ! 
therefore  it  looks  round  and  onward  with  agita- 
tion. It  is  far  more  natural  to  peer  into  the 
possibilities  of  darkness  than  into  the  possibili- 
ties of  light.  The  race  have  been  noted  for 
gloomy  apprehensions.  Men  may  be  told  to 
banish  fear  and  to  look  on  the  sunny  side  of 
existence,  but  with  many  attempts  in  that  direc- 
tion they  do  not  succeed.  Even  the  good  man, 
who  has  a  right  to  be  quiet,  is  not  as  quiet  as  he 
could  wish.  The  belief  in  evil  seems  stronger 
than  the  belief  in  Christ.  What  brooding  cares ! 
How  much  of  suspense !  Some  carry  the  whole 
matter  of  imagined  evil  to  a  fearful  extreme. 
They  behold  nothing  but  night ;  see  neither 
star  nor  shore  ;  affirm  that  "all  men  are  liars." 


Causes  of  Sorrow.  27 

Error  is  pronounced  to  be  truth,  and  sin  to  be 
holiness.  The  human  soul  is  made  in  this  way  to 
work  backward. 

How  often  we  have  sorrow  when  we  think  of 
2i  friend  who  is  dead.  By  a  simple  law  of  asso- 
ciation, a  thought  relating  to  the  departed 
starts  vip  in  the  mind  ;  and  so  we  feel  sad. 
For  a  while  the  vision  of  the  lost  one  stands 
before  us.  Finally  it  disappears.  At  an- 
other time  it  comes  forth  again  ;  some  incident 
or  object  being  the  cause.  If  we  are  eager  to  hold 
fast  the  conception  of  the  one  we  love,  the  sadness 
deepens ;  but  if  we  are  afraid  to  think  too  intent- 
ly because  of  the  pain,  the  conception  fades  away. 
There  are  times,  however,  when  we  have  no 
power  over  self ;  but  spell-bound  we  stand  and 
shed  tears.  How  sorrow  takes  hold  of  us  when 
we  open  the  trunk  containing  the  clothes  and 
the  various  articles  of  a  departed  friend !  They 
have  lain  there  for  months.  We  shrink  from 
touching  them.  There  is  the  diary  with  the  last 
entry,  and  the  pencil  beside  it.  We  look  at  the 
watch.  It  is  still ;  a  symbol  of  death.  We  put 
it  back  into  its  place,  having  no  desire  to  wind 
it  up.  Some  money  is  found  in  a  pocket ;  let 
it  remain  there  a  while  longer.  Everything  in 
that  trunk  is  sacred.     We  close  it  gently,  and 


28  Sorrow. 

depart  with  a  soft  step.  JNTot  often  do  we  care  to 
look  into  it.  The  memorials  of  the  dead  are  too 
numerous  and  tender  for  our  poor  heart. 

Sorrow  will  arise  because  others  are  sinning 
and  suffering  as  the  result  of  our  folly.  Hu- 
man beings  give  way  to  evil  feelings,  and 
then  seehig  the  pain  which  they  have  caused  feel 
troubled.  Think  of  a  spendthrift  or  drunkard 
looking  at  his  desolate  family  after  he  has  come 
to  himself!  He  is  cut  to  the  heart.  And  what 
parent  is  not  troubled  when  he  sees  liis  own  bad 
habits  acted  over  again  by  his  children  ?  Yea, 
the  thought  that  these  same  bad  habits  may 
show  themselves  in  generations  yet  to  come. 
Our  corrupt  influence  travelling  on  forever! 
To  think  of  that  is  most  painful. 

If  a  friend,  failing  to  impress  us  by  words, 
yields  himself  up  to  suffering  in  our  behalf^  our 
heart  instantly  melts.  "  Let  us  present  to  our- 
selves a  company  of  men  traveUing  along  the 
seashore.  One  of  them,  better  acquainted  with 
the  ground  than  the  rest,  warns  them  of  quick- 
sands, and  points  out  to  them  a  landmark  which 
indicated  the  position  of  a  dangerous  j^ass. 
They,  however,  see  no  great  reason  for  appre- 
hension ;  they  are  anxious  to  get  forward,  and 
cannot   resolve   upon   making   a   considerable 


Causes  of  Sorrow.  29 

circuit  in  order  to  avoid  what  appears  to  them 
an  imaginary  evil ;  they  reject  his  counsel,  and 
press  onward.  In  these  circumstances,  what 
argument  ought  he  to  use  ?  What  mode  of 
persuasion  can  we  imaghie  fitted  to  fasten  on 
their  mhids  a  strong  conviction  of  the  reality 
of  tlieir  danger,  and  the  disinterested  benevolence 
of  their  adviser  ?  His  words  have  been  ineffec- 
tual ;  he  must  try  some  other  method  ;  he 
must  act.  And  he  does  so ;  for,  seeing 
no  other  way  of  prevailing  on  them,  he  de- 
sires them  to  wait  only  a  single  moment,  till 
they  see  the  truth  of  his  warning  confirmed  by 
his  fate.  He  goes  before  them  ;  he  puts  his 
foot  on  the  seemingly  firm  sand,  and  sinks 
to  death.  This  eloquence  is  irresistible.  They 
are  persuaded.  They  make  the  necessary  cir- 
cuit, bitterly  accusing  themselves  of  the  death  of 
-their  generous  companion."* 

There  is  the  sorrow  also  which  springs  from 
an  e7islaved  will.  Evil  passions  rem^yning  for 
a  lifetime  :  how  saddening !  A  man  binding 
himself  by  a  law,  then  breaking  it ;  making  a 
promise,  then  breaking  that  ;  putting  forth  a 
new  resolution  as  if  determined  not  to  fail,  yet 
fahing.     Almost  discouraged  by  the  repeated 

*  Erskine,  Internal  Evidence  of  lleligion,  p.  44. 


30  Sorrow. 

falls,  and  wondering  whether  it  is  of  any  use  to 
try  again.  Makes  a  new  attempt  under  the 
pressure  of  better  motives,  and  succeeds  for 
the  present ;  yet  by  and  by  fails,  and  sinks  to  his 
former  level. 

There  may  be  deep  sorrow  at  last,  in  view  of 
a  wasted  life.  Wealth  acquired,  many  honors, 
many  friends  ;  yet  no  attention  given  to  the 
chief  end  of  existence.  The  redemptive  idea 
of  time  forgotten ;  not  the  least  preparation 
for  eternity.  A  hfe  without  any  repentance  ; 
without  any  efforts  put  forth  to  save  men.  How 
can  one  help  being  sad  ?  Even  the  good  lament 
at  last  that  they  have  done  so  little.  But  how 
fearful  is  the  thought  when  a  man  looks  back 
over  the  whole  of  his  earthly  history  and  says, 
^^  My  life  is  a  complete  failure.''^  Such  a  reflection 
as  that  cuts  the  soul  in  two. 

Why  is  it  that  the  dying  do  not  shed  tears, 
while  the  living  who  are  standing  around  them 
do  ?  Even  a  mother  who  is  leaving  a  helpless 
family  does  not  weep,— does  not  weep  though 
the  children  are  crying  bitterly  at  her  side. 
When  friends  are  to  be  separated  from  each 
other  for  a  long  period  they  mutually  shed 
tears  ;  yet  in  the  case  before  us,  where  there 
is  to  be  a  like  separation,  tlie  dying  shed  no 


Causes  of  Sorrow.  31 

tears,  though  the  hving  do.  This  explanation 
may  he  offered :  The  dying  have  their  mind 
impressed  at  a  different  point  from  that  of  the 
hving.  The  natural  feelings  are  forced  into 
the  background,  because  now  the  higher  emo- 
tions are  compelled  to  act  with  reference  to 
the  great  verities  of  existence.  Fear,  awe,  per- 
haps an  element  of  doubt,  penitence,  a  sense  of 
nothingness,  a  prayer  travelling  through  the 
soul  made  up  of  many  desires, — these  holding 
the  immortal  spirit  with  a  new  power.  The 
startling  fact  that  I  am  to  lose  my  hfe  ;  that  I  am 
to  enter  an  entirely  new  state — eternity  ;  that 
I  am  to  appear  before  a  God  of  justice, — such 
pressing  realities  forming  what  seems  like  an 
original  consciousness.  The  soul  is  waiting 
with  trembling  suspense  the  moment  when  it 
shall  leave  the  body,  and  have  its  fate 
fixed  forever ;  the  mere  natural  sympathies 
therefore  are  kept  down.  A  feeling  of  sol- 
itude hems  in  the  trembling  spirit,  and  it 
looks  steadily  at  one  point.  The  decaying  body 
also  affects  the  mind.  Tears  are  not  so  natural 
as  they  once  were.  But  with  the  living,  all  is 
different.  The  soul  and  body  have  a  degree  of 
freshness.  The  thought  of  life  is  before  the  mind 
The  mighty  experiment  of  entering  upon  the 


82  Sorrow. 

scene  of  future  being  is  not  to  be  made  just 
now.  The  simple  fact,  therefore,  that  one  we 
love  is  about  to  be  taken  away  from  us,  arouses 
the  sympathetic  nature.  The  man  who  stands 
upon  the  scaffold  to  be  hung  will  not  shed  tears, 
although  his  friends  will.  The  awful  realities 
that  crowd  about  the  mind  of  the  criminal  seem 
to  petrify  that  mind  :  the  friends  are  differently 
situated,  and  so  they  weep. 

Various  causes  of  sorroio  may  here  be  briefly 
noticed.  I  have  met  with  persons  who  felt  sad 
because  they  were  compelled  to  use  the  money 
that  was  left  them  by  a  friend  now  in  his  grave. 
If  a  son  has  died  in  battle,  the  pension  that 
comes  to  the  mother  as  the  result  of  that  death 
will  start  painful  feelings.  It  seems  almost  as  if 
she  were  living  upon  his  blood.  Even  the 
insurance  money  that  falls  to  a  loving  wife,  be- 
cause her  husband  has  died,  troubles  her.  It 
is  not  a  very  easy  thing  to  wear  the  garment 
of  a  friend  who  has  died  :  a  feeling  of  pain  and 
a  feehng  of  sorrow  arise  in  the  soul.  Some 
persons  are  sad  on  certain  days  ;  days  on  which 
one  that  was  dear  to  them  died.  The  voice  is 
lower  and  the  tears  fall  faster  during  such  me- 
morial periods.  Here  is  a  man  who  has  lost 
his  reason.    Perhaps  he  thhiks  he  has  no  friend ; 


Causes  of  Sorrow.  33 

and  battling  with  unreal  foes,  yet  real  to  him, 
he  is  weary.  There  is  a  peculiar  sadness  which 
comes  to  one  on  a  dark  night.  A  star  twinkles 
here  and  there.  All  is  still,  and  that  stillness 
speaks  to  the  soul ;  it  awakens  the  deeper 
emotions  of  our  being.  As  we  stand  in  a 
meditative  mood  and  look  at  the  surrounding 
creation,  we  almost  imagine  that  it  is  sorrowful: 
that  the  few  stars  are  but  tapers  burning  in  the 
hall  of  grief ;  and  that  there  is  a  speechless 
prayer  ascending  to  the  Infinite  Creator  for 
help.  We  feel  sad  also  when  we  think  that  the 
world  will  move  on  just  as  usual  after  we  are 
dead,  and  that  in  a  few  days  we  shall  be  quite 
forgotten  by  those  who  were  acquainted  with 
us.  How  small  this  makes  us!  Like  sighs 
travelling  over  the  troubled  oceanof  life  we  seem 
to  be.  As  echoes  of  an  unknown  land  we  hasten 
by,  and  are  heard  no  more.  I  am  sorrowful 
because  of  my  sorrow ;  two  griefs  weary  the  soul. 
The  sight  of  a  wrecked  ship,  passing  from  cell  to 
cell  in  a  prison,  walking  across  a  battle-field,  will 
start  pensive  reflections. 

It  is  one  of  the  fine  characteristics  of  our  re- 
ligion that  it  softens  hearts  which  never  before 
have  been  softened,  and  makes  the  tear  to  fall 
which  for  years  had  not  been  seen.     The  grief 


34  SOREOW. 

that  is  connected  with  Christianity  is  a  wonder- 
ful thing.  It  has  changed  the  history  of  the 
world.  Millions  it  has  caused  to  look  from 
earth  to  heaven,  from  self  to  God.  A  converted 
atheist  thus  speaks  of  his  new  experience : 
^'  Once  I  seemed  to  have  no  feeling  ;  now,  thank 
God,  I  can  feel.  I  have  buried  two  wives  and 
six  children,  but  I  never  shed  a  tear-  -I  felt  hard 
and  unhappy — ^now  my  tears  flow  at  the  recollec- 
tion of  these  things."  *  The  emotional  change 
produced  by  the  powder  of  Christianity  among 
some  of  the  natives  of  South  Africa  is  thus  stated 
by  the  Rev.  Robert  Moffat:  ''To  see  females 
weep,"  he  remarks,  "  was  nothing  extraordin- 
ary ;  it  was,  according  to  Bechuana  notions, 
their  province,  and  theirs  alone.  lien  ivould 
not  iveep.  After  having  by  the  rite  of  circum- 
cision become  men,  they  scorned  to  shed  a  tear. 
In  family  and  national  afflictions,  it  was  the 
woman's  work  to  weep  and  wail  ;  the  man's  to 
sit  in  sullen  silence,  often  brooding  deeds  of  re- 
venge and  death.  The  simple  Gospel  now 
melted  their  flinty  hearts  ;  and  eyes  now  wept, 
which  never  before  shed  the  tear  of  hallowed 
sorrow.     We  had  been  so  long  accustomed  to 


*  Walker's  Phil,  of  the  Plan  of  Salvation,  chap.  xix. 


Causes  OF  Sorrow.  '      35 

indifference,  that  we  felt  unprepared  to  look 
on  a  scene  which  perfectly  overwhelmed  our 
minds.  Our  little  chapel  became  a  Bochim — a 
place  of  weeping  ;  and  the  sympathy  of  feel- 
ing spread  from  heart  to  heart,  so  that  even  in- 
fants wepf  * 

If  we  realize  that  we  are  doing  anything  for 
the  last  tiine,  we  feel  sad.  Let  a  statesman  be 
conscious  that  he  has  performed  the  last  public 
act  of  his  life,  and  he  will  feel  sorrowful.  He 
may  have  a  degree  of  pleasure  that  he  is  about 
to  retire  to  the  quiet  scenes  of  private  life,  but 
yet  a  feehng  of  sadness  will  mingle  with  the 
pleasure.  The  author  who  has  written  his  last 
page,  the  minister  who  has  preached  his  last  ser- 
mon, the  physician  who  has  attended  his  last 
patient,  will  from  the  nature  of  the  case  have  a 
depression  of  spirits.  The  student  who  has  fin- 
ished his  course  of  study  in  college  turns  his 
face  homeward  with  a  sigh ;  and  seldom  does 
the  annual  examination  of  an  academy  close 
without  tears  being  shed.  Many  a  man  who 
has  sold  his  farm,  or  the  house  his  father  lived 
in,  almost  relents  after  the  bargain  is  made.  I 
have  frequently  felt  sad  when  I  said  Good-bye 

*  Scenes  in  Southern  Africa,  p.  328. 


36  Sorrow. 

to  a  stranger  whom  I  had  conversed  with  an 
hour  or  tw^o  in  a  railway  car.  The  thought 
crossed  my  mind,  that  here  is  an  immortal  be- 
ing who  has  met  me  but  once,  and  who  shall 
never  likely  be  seen  again  by  me  till  the  judg- 
ment. A  person  who  has  been  struck  blind 
cannot  fail  to  have  a  lingering  feeling  of  sadness 
as  he  remembers  the  last  words  he  read  and  the 
last  human  being  he  ever  saw. 


CHAPTER  III. 

THE  SORROW  OF  GREAT  MINDS, 

A  MIND  of  low  development  may  suppose 
that  a  person  of  superior  intellect  is  not 
subject  to  those  dark  visitations  which  trouble 
the  spirits  of  other  men.  The  exalted  sphere  in 
which  he  is  accustomed  to  move  is  thought  to  be 
a  region  exempt  from  clouds.  This  is  a  sad 
mistake.  Who  can  help  thinking  of  De  Quincey, 
Cowper,  Burton,  and  many  others  ?  John  Fos- 
ter says  of  himself :  ''  My  mind  is  still  familiar 
with  melancholy  musings  ;  no  place  can  banish 
them,  and  no  society.  There  is  *  that  some- 
thing stiU  which  prompts  the  eternal  sigh.'  *'* 
That  eternal  sigh  is  known  to  millions.  If  all 
great  characters  would  make  known  their  expe- 
rience touching  sorrow,  they  would  say  that 
its   shadow  evermore   rests  upon   their  heart. 

*  Life  and  Correspondence,  voL  i.  p.  91. 


38  Sorrow. 

Many  are  consumed  by  the  steady  intensity  of 
their  grief.  They  sigh  themselves  away  into  the 
vast  eternity.  The  sorrow  of  one  mind  will 
sometimes  be  the  sorrow  of  thousands.  There 
are  central,  typical  souls, — persons  in  whom  the 
manifold  streams  of  a  past  grief  seems  to  be 
headed  up,  and  who  represent  myriads  of  sad 
spirits  yet  to  appear.  Men  are  found  whose 
life  is  like  that  of  the  prophet's  roll — ''Written 
within  and  without  with  lamentations,  and 
mourning,  and  woe."  Numbers  of  brave  spirits 
have  fought  nobly  in  this  great  world  of  sin, 
and  have  gained  many  victories,  while  at  the 
last  they  have  fallen  in  the  one  battle  with  their 
own  sorrow. 

"Alas,  for  my  weary  and  care-haunted  bosom ! 
The  spells  of  the  spring-time  arouse  it  no  more  : 
The  song  in  the  wild  wood,  the  sheen  in  the  blossom, 
The  fresh  sweUing  fountain — their  magic  is  o'er." 

Mijah  may  be  looked  upon  as  one  of  the 
great  but  sad  spirits  of  time.  He  was  the  puritan 
of  the  Jewish  dispensation.  How  bold,  stern,  and 
true  !  He  saw  evil  and  hated  it  with  a  perfect 
hatred.  What  faith  he  had,  and  what  jealousy 
for  God!  Yet  the  man  who  could  slay  the 
prophets  of  Baal   became   low-sprited..    Fear 


Sorrow  of  Great  Minds.  39 

and  sadaess  took  hold  of  his  heart.  "  He  went 
a  day's  journey  into  the  wilderness,  and  came 
and  sat  down  under  .a  juniper  tree  :  and  he  re- 
quested for  himself  that  he  might  die  ;  and  said, 
It  is  enough ;  now  0  Lord  take  away  my  life ;  for 
I  am  not  better  than  my  fathers."  The  very 
language  is  a  picture  of  sad  loneliness.  How 
strange  that  melancholy  should  darken  the 
spirit  of  the  man  who  was  to  be  conveyed  to 
heaven  by  steeds  of  light ! 

Dante  may  be  mentioned  also  as  one  of  the 
great  chiefs  of  sorrow.  He  seems  like  an  ex- 
piring star.  His  wail  echoes  through  the  eter- 
nal night.  "  That  portrait,  commonly  attribut- 
ed to  Giotto,  you  cannot  help  inchning  to  think 
genuine.  To  me,  it  is  a  most  touching  face  ; 
perhaps  of  all  faces  that  I  know,  the  most  so. 
Lonely  there,  painted  as  on  vacancy,  with  the 
simple  laurel  wound  round  it  ;  the  deathless 
sorrow  and  pain,  the  known  victory,  which  is 
also  deathless, — significant  of  the  whole  history 
of  Dante  !  I  think  it  is  the  mournfullest  face 
that  ever  was  painted  from  reality  ;  an  alto- 
gether tragic,  heart-affecting  face.  There  is  in 
it,  as  foundation  of  it,  the  softness,  tenderness, 
gentle  affection  as  of  a  child  ;  but  all  this  is  as 
if  congealed  into  sharp  contradiction,  into  ab- 


40  Sorrow. 

negation,  isolation,  proud,  hopeless  pain.  A  soft 
ethereal  soul  looking  out  so  stern,  implacable 
grim-trenchant,  as  from  imprisonment  of  thick- 
ribbed  ice !  Withal  it  is  a  silent  pain  too,  a 
silent,  scornful  one  ;  the  lip  is  curled  in  a  kind  of 
godlike  disdain  of  the  thing  that  is  eating  out 
his  heart — as  if  it  were  withal  a  mean  insigni- 
ficant thing,  as  if  he  whom  it  had  power  to  tor- 
ture and  strangle  were  greater  than  it.  The 
face  of  one  wholly  in  protest,  and  lifelong  un- 
surrendering  battle,  against  the  world.  Affec- 
tion,_  all  converted  into  indignation  ;  an  impla- 
cable indignation ;  slow,  equable,  silent,  like 
that  of  a  god !  The  eye  too,  it  looks  out  as  in  a 
kind  of  surprise,  a  kind  of  inquiry.  Why  the 
world  was  of  such  a  sort  ?  This  is  Dante  :  so 
he  looks,  this  *  voice  often  silent  centuries,^  and 
sings  us  'his  mystic,  unfathomable  song.^"* 

Pascal  was  another  of  the  exalted  minds  that 
was  sorrowful.  He  seems  to  us  like  the  solitary 
fragment  of  a  rainbow  resting  upon  the  earth. 
The  world  to  him  was  one  vast  ruin.  Uncer- 
tainty and  imperfection  he  beheld  on  every 
hand.  Nothing  was  real  but  God,  redemption, 
and  the  blessed  life.  When  we  think  of  the 
quickness  of  his  mind,  his  fine  generalizations, 

*Oarlyle's  Heroes  and  Hero- Worship,  p.  77. 


SoBROw  OF  Great  Minds.  41 

then  of  his  sadness,  we  sigh.  As  we  hear  him 
talk  of  the  weakness  and  misery  of  man,  we 
assent  to  the  truthfuhiess  of  his  words.  He  had 
the  faculty  of  looking  beneath  appearances. 
He  laid  bare  the  movements  of  souls.  His 
sadness  is  like  that  of  a  wind  wandering  through 
a  deserted  temple  ;  like  the  wail  of  a  great  sea 
at  night.  Disease  deepened  the  depression  of 
his  spirit,  and  shortened  the  days  that  were  so 
full  of  melancholy.  In  the  prime  of  life  he  died. 
"  Upon  opening  his  body  the  stomach  and  liver 
were  found  diseased,  and  the  intestines  in  a 
state  of  gangrene  ;  and  when  his  skull  was  laid 
open,  it  was  found  to  contain  an  enormous 
quantity  of  brain,  solid  and  condensed.'' 

The  introspective  mind  is  peculiarly  fashioned 
for  grief.  The  soul  turns  in  upon  itself,  and 
has  an  attachment  to  all  subjective  realities.  To 
settle  down  into  a  contemplative  state  is  natural 
and  easy.  The  tendency  is  to  look  toward  the 
deeper  aspects  of  life.  Food  for  meditation  is 
very  soon  found,  and  grief  with  its  pain  is  very 
soon  reached.  Sometimes  there  is  a  congress 
of  the  noblest  ideas  of  the  soul  of  man.  These 
ideas  will  not  finish  their  colloquy  and  separate 
from  each  other,  without  producing  feelings  of 
sadness.  It  should  be  observed  also  that  abstract 


42  Sorrow. 

tion,  when  centered  upon  inward  things,  is  apt 
to  fasten  upon  the  heart's  sadness,  and  to  bring 
it  out  ;  but,  when  it  has  an  exclusive  reference 
to  outward  things,  the  sadness  for  the  moment 
is  lost  sight  of.  I  forget  the  lake  that  is  at  my 
feet  while  looking  intently  at  the  sky  that  is 
overhead.  Abstraction  may  thus  deepen  or 
lessen  human  sorrow  according  to  the  object  on 
which  it  is  fixed.  There  is  a  kind  of  retiring  in- 
wardness to  the  sorrow  of  all  introspective  minds ; 
but  the  meditative  characteristic  projects  it  into 
consciousness,  where  it  is  seen  more  distinctly. 
In  fact  the  habit  of  thoughtfulness  affiliates  with 
sorrow  ;  really  attracts  it ;  keeps  it  in  motion  j 
makes  a  channel  for  it  to  flow  in. 

The  manifold  power  of  great  minds  opens  up 
ways  of  sorrow.  A  person  who  simply  looks  at 
hfe  in  the  mass  will  not  suffer  as  much  as  he 
who  grasps  it  in  all  its  particulars.  To  stand 
upon  a  lofty  summit  and  see  millions  of  men 
passing  before  you  ;  to  be  able  to  trace  out  the 
intricate  causes  which  move  them,  and  the 
mighty  array  of  effects  which  stream  forth  from 
them  ;  to  know  the  history  of  the  chief  nations 
of  the  past  and  present,  and  to  give  wise  hints 
touching  the  coming  future, — to  have  such 
mental  abilities  is  to  have   sorrow.     The   less 


Sorrow  of  Great  Minds.  43 

thought,  the  less  grief.  Complete  ignorance 
may  relieve  from  sadness  ;  but  what  a  price  to 
pay!  It  is  not  difficult  to  see  that  "he  who 
increaseth  knowledge  increaseth  sorrow."  Yet 
it  is  an  exalted  privilege  to  be  permitted  to 
have  a  feeling  that  matches  well  with  the  actual 
state  of  life  and  man.  If  one  could  take  in  the 
whole  of  human  things,  and  could  exercise  a 
grief  that  would  be  proportioned  to  the  collec- 
tive evil  of  time, — that  grief,  though  painful, 
would  certainly  be  of  an  exalted  kind.  I  may 
say  also  that  there  is  something  in  the  vast  and 
infinite  which  will  excite  sad  emotions  in  a 
spirit  of  manifold  power.  A  lofty  range  of 
mountains  ;  a  plain  that  stretches  from  one  ho- 
rizon to  the  other  ;  a  forest  through  which  one 
walks  for  days  ;  the  eternal  sea  ;  the  dome  of 
heaven  sparkling  with  silent  stars ;  the  al- 
mighty energy  that  runs  through  the  whole  of 
iiature  ;  time  without  beginning  and  without 
end, — these  spread  over  the  soul  a  pleasing  mel- 
ancholy. 

According  to  the  fineness  of  the  mind  will  be 
its  aptitude  to  suffer  grief.  Finish,  as  a  char- 
acteristic of  mental  natures,  certainly  does  make 
them  more  sensitive.  The  perfected  musician 
has  an  ear  so  exact  that  the  least  discord  causes 


44  SonROW. 

his  mind  to  move  and  twitch,  much  the  same  as 
the  body  does  when  it  is  scratched  with  a  pin. 
Let  a  man  have  an  exceedingly  fine  taste  for 
the  beautiful  and  the  true,  and  at  once  he  is 
greatly  discomposed  if  he  meets  with  anything 
that  runs  counter  to  this  taste.  The  very 
quiohness  of  recoil  in  the  mind  is  the  sure  evi- 
dence of  a  finished  nature.  A  person  distin- 
guished for  great  purity  of  life  and  sweep  of 
intellect  will  be  pained  by  the  touch  of  sin  and 
the  sight  of  ig.iorance.  Avarice  disturbs  the 
benevolent,  pride  the  humble,  and  profanity 
the  man  that  fears  God.  The  good  suffer  more 
from  one  evil  act,  than  the  wicked  from  a 
thousand  deeds  of  darkness.  Dull  and  dwarfed 
souls  can  neither  be  very  happy,  nor  very 
miserable.  A  great  mind  can  be  the  sub- 
ject of  ineffable  joy,  or  of  ineffable  sorrow. 

Usually  there  is  some  infirmity  that  belongs 
to  the  greatest  of  men,  and  this  tends  to  breed 
sadness.  The  infirmity  may  belong  to  the  body 
or  the  soul,  may  be  constitutional  or  moral,  or 
a  combination  of  both.  Completeness  of  being 
is  not  found  upon  earth.  Irritableness,  a  ten- 
dency to  levity,  to  indolence,  may  engender 
sorrow.  There  may  have  been  some  form  of 
intemperance    in   the  past,   some    leading   sin 


SoiiRow  OF  Great  Minds.  46 

which  has  left  a  mark  on  the  soul  ;  and  so  the 
result  is  sadness.  I  question  whether  Augus- 
tine ever  forgot  the  wild  passions  of  his  youth  ; 
Paul,  his  rage  against  the  church  ;  Solomon, 
his  fruitless  trial  of  earthly  good  ;  David,  his 
adultery  and  murder.  I  have  even  thought 
that  Adam,  during  his  nine  hundred  and  thir- 
ty years  of  probation,  must  have  been  a  man  of 
sorrows.  All  was  fair  when  he  appeared.  The 
thought  of  sin  he  had  not.  Holiness  and  happi- 
ness were  his.  But  he  fell ;  and  what  a  change ! 
He  is  the  only  human  being  that  has  led  off 
the  entire  race  into  evil  ;  the  only  one  that  be- 
gan with  holiness  and  ended  with  sin  ;  that  be- 
gan with  joy  and  ended  with  sorrow.  There  is 
really  a  marked  isolation  about  him.  The 
farther  he  entered  into  time,  the  farther  he  was 
pressed  back  into  sorrow.  There  was  every- 
thing to  deepen  the  sense  of  his  primal  fall. 
Whether  he  had  a  tendency  to  go  as  near  as  he 
could  to  Eden  that  there  he  might  weep,  we 
cannot  tell.  Perhaps  not  far  from  the  place 
where  he  sinned,  there  he  sorrowed.  Of  all 
the  great  minds,  Adam  was  the  first  and  the 
most  sad.  He  was  a  type  of  him  whose  sorrow 
may  not  be  mentioned  here. 

True  originality,  as  the  mark  of  a  well- en- 


46  Sorrow. 

dewed  spirit,  may  be  made  an  occasion  of  sad- 
ness. The  person  of  original  attainments  is  al- 
most sure  to  be  ahead  of  the  time  in  which  he 
lives.  Much  that  he  states,  therefore,  will  not 
be  understood  and  appreciated.  That  he  will  be 
opposed  is  almost  certain.  That  he  may  be 
made  to  suffer  is  possible.  Many  have  suffered 
in  like  circumstances.  Take  Socrates  and  GaU- 
leo  as  instances.  In  original  moral  action  the 
danger  is  no  less  great  than  in  the  field  of  thought, 
[n  fact  the  danger  is  greater.  The  depraved 
nature  of  man  is  more  thoroughly  aroused  by 
uncompromising  righteousness  than  it  is  by  any 
discoveries  of  the  understanding;  and  when 
light  and  life  combine  their  power,  the  opposi- 
tion may  be  supposed  to  be  at  its  highest  point. 
It  is  one  of  the  sad  and  startling  facts  of  history 
that  not  a  single  reformer  has  appeared  who 
has  not  been  persecuted.  This  state  of  things 
must  react  upon  the  devoted  mind.  Whatever 
of  confidence  one  may  have  in  the  eternity  of 
truth  and  right,  this  is  not  sufficient  to  shut  out 
ill  pensive  reflections.  The  simple  fact  that 
wise  and  benevolent  efforts  have  been  trampled 
.mder  foot  will  of  necessity  generate  grief.  Not 
Lo  feel  sad  in  view  of  such  results,  would  be 
evidence  of  a  debased  rather  than  of  a  lofty  mmd. 


Sorrow  of  Great  Minds.  47 

Again,  persons  who  have  a  fine  imagination 
are  usually  tinged  with  sadness.  Is  not  the  im- 
agination that  one  faculty  that  arranges  sorrow- 
producing  objects  ?  It  would  seem  so.  Why 
do  I  shed  tears  while  reading  an  article  that 
recounts  to  me  the  great  sufferings  of  men  ? 
One  reason  certainly  is,  that  the  writer  has 
made  the  whole  scene  to  stand  out  before  the 
mind  with  life-like  power.  It  is  the  imagina- 
tion that  has  done  the  work, — the  faculty  that 
represents.  When  an  object  calculated  to  ex- 
cite sad  emotions  is  right  before  me,  in  that  case 
I  have  but  to  look  ;  but  when  the  object  is 
distant  in  time  or  space,  I  need  the  imagina- 
tion to  make  it  a  present  reality,  A  vivid  im- 
agination gives  us  a  vivid  consciousness  ;  and 
thus  a  platform  is  raised  for  a  well-defined  im- 
age of  sorrow  to  stand  upon.  It  sometimes 
even  happens  that  an  event  brought  out  with 
all  truthfulness  by  the  imagination,  will  affect 
us  more  sensibly  than  if  it  were  witnessed  by 
the  naked  eye ;  while,  again,  the  direct  gaze,  say 
upon  the  thousands  of  dying  and  dead  on  a 
field  of  battle,  will  produce  a  deeper  mental 
anguish  than  can  be  produced  in  any  other  way. 
In  the  one  case,  a  master  of  language  may  do 
for  us  what  we  could  not   do  for  ourselves  j 


48  Sorrow. 

while  in  the  other,  nature  can  do  for  us  what 
language  cannot. 

It  is  true  also  that  the  finished  ideals  of  a 
cultivated  mind  prompt  to  sadness.  All  ef- 
forts to  reach  perfection  in  any  form  are  con- 
nected with  these  ideals.  Yet  the  sadness  is, 
that  there  is  always  a  falling  short.  Here  is  a 
beauty  that  I  cannot  paint,  a  harmony  which  I 
cannot  reach,  a  love  which  I  cannot  feel.  I  can 
think  of  a  happiness  which  is  not  mine,  a  rest 
more  sabbath-like  than  that  which  visits  my 
soul.  There  is  a  power  of  mind  which  I  have 
not  manifested,  a  work  to  be  done  which  I 
have  not  performed,  a  Christianity  which  I 
have  not  realized,  and  a  Christ  whom  I  cannot 
describe.  Deficiency  may  be  written  upon  every 
page  of  the  soul's  life.  A  sublime  melancholy 
takes  possession  of  one  when  he  struggles  to 
reach  unwonted  heights,  but  cannot.  The  soul 
has  unrest  in  the  midst  of  its  mightiest  long- 
ings. It  sighs  as  it  looks  toward  that  which 
runs  on  forever.  The  aspirations  are  greatly 
excited  by  the  ideal  images  of  the  soul.  There 
is  a  reaching  after  that  which  is  infinite  ;  the 
adaptations  of  time  not  being  sufficient  to  meet 
the  wants  of  the  immortal  spirit.  A  hunger  is 
felt,  which  is  but  partially  appeased  ;   a  good 


SoKKOW  OF  Great  Minds.  49 

is  longed  for,  that  only  comes  in  fragments, — 
the  totality  of  it  is  never  found.  Sin  has  forged 
chains  and  fastened  them  to  the  heart.  The 
spirit  sighs  m  the  midst  of  its  bondage.  When 
will  the  ransom-period  come?  A  common 
mind  is  not  so  Hkely  to  be  saddened  by  the 
sight  of  excellence  as  one  that  is  highly  culti- 
vated. Superior  natures  work  antithetically. 
Both  the  bright  and  the  dark  sadden  them  ; 
while  the  sorrow  of  lower  natures  arises  mainly 
from  that  which  is  dark.  It  has  been  said  that 
Robert  Burns  could  never  read  the  verse — 
*'  God  shall  wipe  away  all  tears  from  their 
eyes  " — without  himself  being  affected  to  tears. 
His  mind  was  antithetic.  When  the  poet  Camp- 
bell was  told  on  a  certain  occasion  that  his 
"  Gertrude  of  Wyoming ''  had  been  read  by  some 
lovers  of  the  work  near  where  the  scene  was 
laid,  he  wept ;  and  remarked,  "  This  is  fame." 
To  be  well  thought  of  was  no  doubt  pleasing  to 
the  poet's  heart ;  yet  the  praise  of  mortals, 
when  contrasted  with  that  which  is  truly 
great  and  durable,  could  start  a  sigh  and  even 
tears. 

Look  now  at  the  slow  march  of  truth  in  this 
world,  and  see  how  that  sadly  affects  a  highly 
gifted  and  thoughtful  mind.    Although  six  thou- 


50  SOBBOW. 

sand  years  have  swept  their  round  since  the 
commencement  of  human  history,  yet  the 
greater  part  of  the  race  have  no  correct  concep- 
tions of  God,  of  man,  and  of  the  method  of 
connecting  God  and  man  together.  Indeed  I 
may  say  that  the  being  we  denominate  God  is 
not  known  at  all  by  the  majority  of  our  species. 
This  single  fact,  if  there  were  no  other,  is  suffi- 
cient to  sadden  a  contemplative  mind.  To 
think  that  the  Creator  and  Upholder  of  a  uni- 
verse is  not  known  is  appalling.  We  behold 
crowds  of  immortal  creatures  staring  at  dead 
forms,  and  at  what  may  be  called  broken  frag- 
ments of  divinity  ;  while  others  have  nothing 
more  than  a  vague  impression  of  a  great  ouU 
stretching  power  that  forms  the  background  of 
ail  created  things.  In  either  case,  the  one  ver- 
itable God*  of  creation  and  Christianity  is  not 
found.  It  is  the  same  as  if  he  were  dead,  and 
men  were  occupying  themselves  with  what 
seems  like  the  remains  of  Deity.  There  are 
provinces  of  darkness  upon  this  earth  so  black 
that  into  them  a  single  gospel  ray  of  light  does 
not  enter  to  break  up  the  monotony  of  th( 
gloom.  There  are  eight  hundred  millions  ol 
people  just  now  living  who  cannot  give  a  correct 
answer  to  the  question,  "  What  shall  I  do  to  be 


SoBEow  OF  Geeat  Minds.  61 

saved  ?"  In  everything  like  redemptive  knowl- 
edge, there  are  entire  races  on  the  way  to  eter- 
nity at  this  hour,  who  have  really  sunk  in  the 
scale  far  below  the  tribes  of  a  most  distant  anti- 
quity. Instead  of  the  march  of  truth,  there  is 
the  march  of  error.  And  even  in  favored  places, 
men  are  trying  to  destroy  every  idea  of  sin 
and  accountability,  providence  and  punishment, 
eternity  and  Grod.  The  most  important  truth 
is  spurned  out  of  existence  as  if  it  were  a  vision 
too  bright  for  the  dark  soul  of  man,  and  as  if 
he  could  find  happiness  in  no  other  way  than 
in  the  midst  of  blank  negation, — all  things  gone 
himself,  and  he  to  go  quite  soon.    . 

How  painful  also,  as  one  beholds  the  merely 
mundane  life  of  so  many  of  our  race.  The 
reign  of  sheer  earthliness.  The  souFs  move- 
ments bounded  by  the  world.  No  motive  out- 
side of  time.  Even  those  who  assume  to  be 
upon  a  higher  plane,  yet  still  earthly  as  matter 
of  fact.  The  mundane  drift  of  the  soul  is  the 
point  that  must  be  seized.  Whether  the  occu- 
pation be  mental  or  material  is  not  essential  ; 
worldliness  is  apparent.  What  we  find  is 
simply  a  humanistic  life.  The  end  certainly  is 
not  to  prepare  for  eternity.  God  is  not  the 
chief  motive  to  the  soul.     The  mundane  life  is 


52  Sorrow. 

godless.  Not  only  does  this  state  of  man  sadly 
impress  us,  but  the  impression  is  deepened  by 
the  difficulty  of  breaking  it  up.  The  most  seri- 
ous views  of  life  and  destiny  may  be  presented 
to  the  earthly  mind,  yet  there  is  no  giving  way. 
A  ripple  on  the  downward  current  is  all  that 
is  made.  The  fearful  fact  that  the  soul  is  lost, 
that  an  infinite  remedy  has  been  provided  by 
the  munificence  of  Heaven,  that  stupendous 
motives  crowd  upon  the  wayward  spirit,  do  not 
make  the  least  difference  as  it  respects  the  gov- 
erning earthliness  of  the  mind, — ^it  is  permanent 
as  ever.  Here  is  a  God-created  soul  hving  for 
the  present,  and  trying  to  be  contented  with  it. 
This  is  saddening  in  the  extreme. 

Xot  unfrequently  one  will  have  a  feeling  of 
melancholy  as  he  contemplates  the  mysterious 
nature  of  the  present  system.  How  strange  that 
the  human  race  should  exist  at  all!  If  an  in- 
habitant were  to  come  among  us  fro:n  one  of 
the  distant  worlds  of  creation,  he  would  be  both 
startled  and  puzzled.  Startled,  in  that  the  life 
wliicli  he  beholds  is  utter  vanity  ;  puzzled,  be- 
cause he  learns  that  the  very  creatures  wlio 
are  immersed  in  folly  are  also  immortal. 
Great  offenders  are  not  frequently  struck  down 
with  a  sudden  blow  by  the  Almighty.     There 


Sorrow  of  Great  Minds.  63 

are  times  when  one  feels  that  an  infinite  amount 
of  evil  would  be  obviated  by  the  instant  disap- 
pearance of  a  single  man  from  the  stage  of  life. 
The  small  number  of  pious  men  that  are  now 
upon  the  earth,  or  that  have  been  upon  in  it 
ages  past,  is  one  of  the  enigmas  of  the  present 
economy.  Sin  is  the  one  mystery  and  the  one 
evil. 

The  cry  goes  up,  *'  Would  God  it  were  morn- 
ingJ^  To  a  spirit  of  fine  mould,  a  view  of 
man  is  oppressive.  Beholding  so  much  of  ig- 
noran<ie.  sin,  misery,  death,  one  longs  for  the 
day.  To  obtain  a  little  relief,  we  think  of  the 
good  here  and  there  ;  of  the  good  that  have 
once  lived  ;  and  still  more  of  the  good  that  are 
to  be  in  the  ages  to  come.  We  cannot  rest 
short  of  a  morning.  In  our  silent  communings, 
a  portion  of  divine  light  spreads  over  us.  We 
ascend  to  a  higher  region  of  existence.  We 
are  moved  upon  by  unseen  powers.  Troops 
of  angels  fly  past  us .  on  '  their  way  to  heaven, 
and  soft  breezes  fan  us,  and  celestial  odors  touch 
us.  We  are  inclined  to  think  of  the  serene 
land,  of  the  country  of  kingly  men,  of  seraphs, 
and  of  God.  The  cry  sounds  forth,  "  When 
will  the  night  end  P^^  "  Above  the  tumult  of  na- 
ture, ^bove  the  clash  of  weapons,  in  tears,  as 


64:  SOEROW. 

beneath  laughter,  we  hear  it  still.  This  is  the 
cry  of  all  tender,  all  broken  hearts  ;  of  all  who 
are  unhappy,  all  who  believe  themselves  happy. 
This  is  what  the  insane  keep  calling  aloud, 
what  the  wise  murmur,  what  perhaps  even  the 
fallen,  the  lost  soul  repeats  unconsciously  ;  this 
is  the  language  of  the  seekers  after  truth,  the 
lovers  of  the  ideal ;  the  shuddering  question  of 
lamentable  sadness,  the  hope-thrilled  sigh  of 
sadness  which  is  beautiful."* 

*  The  Countess  De  Grasparin,  Human  Sadness,  p.  209. 


► 


CHAPTER  lY. 

SORROW  AND  HOME. 

WE  sigh  as  we  trace  these  words.  They 
start  in  the  mind  pensive  thoughts. 
The  greatest  ^oy  and  sorrow  are  connected  with 
home.  It  is  the  one  centre  of  hfe  towards  which 
we  tend  ;  which  We  always  love  ;  which  we 
never  forget.  The  very  griefs  of  home,  not 
less  than  its  joys,  attract  us.  That  which  is 
gained  through  suffering  is  more  highly  prized 
than  that  which  is  gained  without  it.  A  joy 
that  comes  from  a  great  sorrow  will  leave  a 
great  sorrow  in  the  soul  when  once  the  joy  de- 
parts. Home  is  the  place  of  contrasts.  The 
brighter  the  day,  the  darker  the  night. 

8in  casts  a  shadow  over  every  home.  Par- 
ents and  children  are  struck  with  evil.  The 
best  feelings  are  not  always  manifested,  the 
best  words  not  always  spoken,  the  best  actions 


66  SOEROW. 

not  always  performed.  The  ideal  home  is  not 
realized  here.  Poets  and  novelists  picture  out 
family  scenes  which  are  not  known  upon  earth. 
The  higher  the  ideal,  the  more  sad  the  disap- 
pointment. What  sorrow  arises  from  a  lost 
father !  what  sorrow  from  a  ruined  son  !  "  Look 
there !  In  that  corpse  you  see  the  cold,  dead 
body  of  one  of  the  best  and  godliest  mothers  it 
was  ever  our  privilege  to  know.  She  had  a  son. 
He  was  the  stay  of  her  widowhood — so  kind,  so 
affectionate,  so  loving.  She  lived  to  see  thats^n 
a  disgrace,  and  all  the  promises  of  his  life  blight- 
ed and  gone.  He  was  drawn  into  habits  of  in- 
temperance. Ou  her  knees  she  pleaded  with 
him.  On  her  knees  she  prayed  for  him.  How 
mysterious  are  the  ways  of  Providence  !  She 
did  not  live  to  see  him  changed  ;  and  with  such 
thorns  in  her  pillow,  such  daggers,  planted  by 
such  a  hand,  in  her  heart,  she  could  not  live. 
She  sank  under  these  griefs,  and  died  of  a  bro- 
ken heart.  We  told  him  so.  With  bitter,  burn- 
ing tears  he  owned  it ;  charging  himself  with 
his  mother's  death — confessing  himself  a  mother's 
murderer.  Crushed  with  sorrow,  and  all  alone, 
he  went  to  see  the  body.  Alone,  beside  that 
cold,  dead,  unreproaching  mother,  he  knelt 
down  and  wept  out  his  terrible  remorse.     After 


r 


Sorrow  and  Home.  67 

a  while  he  rose.  Unfortunately — how  unfor- 
tunate that  a  spirit  bottle  should  have  been 
left  there — his  eyes  fell  on  the  old  tempter. 
You  have  seen  the  iron  approach  the  magnet. 
Call  it  spell,  call  it  fascination,  call  it  anything 
bad,  demoniacal,  but  as  the  iron  is  drawn  to  the 
magnet,  or  as  a  fluttering  bird,  fascinated  by 
the  burning  eye  and  glittering  skin  of  the  ser- 
pent, walks  into  its  envenomed,  expanded  jaws, 
so  was  he  drawn  to  the  bottle.  Wondering  at 
his  delay,  they  entered  the  room  ;  and  now  the 
bed  holds  two  bodies — a  dead  mother,  and  her 
dead-drunk  son.  What  a  sight !  what  a  hum- 
bling, horrible  spectacle !  and  what  a  change 
from  those  happy  times,  when  night  drew  her 
peaceful  curtains  around  the  same  son  and  mo- 
ther— he,  a  sweet  babe,  sleeping,  angel-like, 
within  her  loving  arms  !"* 

Sickness  that  appears  to  he  dangerous  awak- 
ens sorrow.  The  soul  is  anxious  and  pained. 
We  wait  upon  the  sick  with  love  ;  a  love  that 
is  wet  with  grief.  There  is  the  smile  of  atlec- 
tion  and  the  tear.  What  can  be  done  for  the 
sufferer  ?  Has  any  means  been  left  untried  ? 
There  is  willingness  to  do  anything.     The  dark 

•  Dr.  Guthrie,  The  City  :  Its  Sins  and  Sorrows,  p.  99. 


58  SOKEOW. 

cloud  deepens  in  darkness.  Fears  multiply. 
Sorrow  destroys  our  appetite ;  destroys  our 
sleep  ;  renders  pale  our  countenance.  The 
imagination  becomes  unduly  excited.  We  think 
we  hear  sounds  ;  the  sounds  of  the  sick  and 
dying.  Did  you  call  me  ?  Do  you  feel  pain  ? 
Would  you  like  anything? 

There  is  that  peculiar  turn  of  the  soul  which 
makes  us  to  think  of  the  living  as  dead.  The 
dying  agonies  we  have  witnessed.  The  last 
words  have  fallen  upon  our  ear.  We  saw  friends 
standing  around  the  bed  on  which  the  dead  was 
lying.  All  were  weeping.  The  neighbors  came 
in  to  assist,  and  to  comfort  us  in  our  grief.  We 
even  think  of  the  expressions  which  they  use. 
Tears  steal  down  our  face  as  we  keep  thinking. 
The  coffin  is  brought.  The  body  is  placed  in 
it.  The  exercises  of  the  funeral  begin  and  end. 
The  grave  is  closed.  We  return  home.  But 
this  is  simply  the  working  of  the  imagination. 
Expecting  that  death  will  come,  it  seems  many 
a  time  to  have  come.  Those  who  have  had  a 
friend  wasting  away  with  disease,  know  how  na- 
tural it  is  to  think  of  the  living  as  dead.  There 
are  times  when  we  even  imagine  ourselves  to  be 
dying,  although  we  are  in  the  midst  of  health. 
We  are  giving  our  last  advice  to  our  children, 


SoKROW  AND  Home.  69 

and  thinking  what  shall  be  their  state  when  we 
are  gone.  Into  the  dark  silence  we  seem  to 
enter,  and  on  the  borders  of  eternity  we  seem 
to  stand.  But  the  whole  is  a  dream  in  the 
midst  of  wakefulness.  Whatever  we  dread, 
comes  to  us  in  this  way  as  a  present  reality. 
If  the  thought  of  poverty  trouble  us,  then  we 
are  poor  ;  if  we  fear  the  loss  of  some  situation, 
we  lose  it  in  our  mind  ;  if  we  anticipate  disho- 
nor, there  are  meditative  moments  when  it 
seems  to  have  come.  The  son  even,  whose 
father  killed  himself,  may  have  thoughts  of  self- 
destruction  J  and  the  daughter,  whose  mother 
was  insane,  may  imagine  herself  to  be  an  in- 
mate of  a  lunatic  asylum.  He  who  inherits 
consumption  will  seem  to  die  many  a  time  of 
that  disease,  and  he  who  lives  in  a  country 
noted  for  earthquakes  will  have  visions  of 
their  coming.  Yea,  that  which  we  anticipate 
with  delight  will  so  work  upon  the  mind  that 
oftentimes  it  wiU  seem  to  be  realized.  The 
man  who  is  struggling  to  obtain  wealth  will 
have  his  golden  moments  ;  the  aspirant  for 
honor  will  seem  to  have  reached  it ;  he  who 
longs  to  visit  a  certain  place  will  seem  to  him- 
self to  be  there.  When  Robinson  Crusoe  de- 
sired to  return  to  the  island  where  he  once 


60  Sorrow. 

lived,  his  mind  worked  just  in  this  way  He 
says  :  "I  actually  supposed  myself  often  upon 
the  spot,  at  my  old  castle,  behind  the  trees  ; 
saw  my  old  Spaniard,  Friday's  father,  and  the 
reprobate  sailors,  I  left  upon  the  island  ;  nay,  I 
fancied  I  talked  with  them,  and  looked  at  them 
steadily,  though  I  was  broad  awake."* 

What  a  dark  shadow  spreads  over  the  house- 
hold when  death  for  \h.Q  first  time  has  entered 
it !  How  must  Adam  and  Eve  have  felt  when 
they  ascertained  that  Abel  was  dead,  was  slain, 
— slain  by  a  brother !  No  doubt  the  first  home 
had  a  grief  which  never  left  it.  Then,  when 
the  ^rs^  aged  man  died,  how  sad  the  household ! 
Living  so  many  hundred  years  and  then  pass- 
ing away,  what  a  loss  1  But  exceedin^y  pain- 
ful it  must  have  been  when  the  tidings  spread 
around  that  an  infant  had  died.  Nothing  of 
this  kind  had  happened  before.  All  persons 
had  lived  to  old  age.  Now  for  the  first  time  a 
little  child  has  breathed  its  last.  What  sur- 
prise must  have  seized  the  minds  of  friends 
and  others  !  Doubtless  they  tried  to  ascertain 
the  cause  of  such  a  strange  event  ;  doubtless 
they  speculated  as  to  whether  such  a  thing 
would  ever  likely  occur  again.     Time  settled 

*  Sect.  XXX. 


Sorrow  and  Home.  61 

the  question.  Infants  die.  The  first  death  in 
any  family  is  saddening.  A  new  event  has  ap- 
peared in  our  history  ;  a  new  wound  has  been 
received  in  the  heart ;  a  new  consciousness 
characterizes  the  soul.  If  the  first  and  only 
child  has  died,  the  grief  will  be  exceedingly 
painful.  The  one  flower  that  bloomed  beside 
our  door  is  cut  down  ;  the  solitary  light  that 
burned  in  our  dwelling  is  extinguished  ;  the 
immortal  that  tarried  with  us  for  an  hour  has 
gone  away. 

The  excessive  grief  of  a  parent  may  depress 
and  injure  the  minds  of  the  children.  To  move 
forward  in  the  midst  of  night,  with  never  a 
smile  on  our  countenance,  is  dangerous.  There 
should  be  a  limit  to  parental  sorrow.  Duty 
demands  that  serenity  should  take  the  place  of 
sadness.  The  quickness  and  elasticity  of  the 
youthful  mind  are  taken  away  by  compelling 
such  a  mind  to  look  constantly  upon  sorrow. 
After  Lord  Russel  had  been  beheaded,  John 
Howe  addressed  a  letter  of  condolence  to  his 
widow.  In  that  letter  he  gives  the  following 
advice  : 

"Your  continued  visible  dejection  would  be  to  the 
unspeakable  disadvantage  of  your  children.  You  will 
always  naturally  create  in  them  a  reverence  of  you  ; 
and  I  cannot  but  apprehend  how  the  constant  mean 


62  Sorrow. 

aspect  and  deportment  of  such  a  parent  will  insensibly 
influence  the  temper  of  dutiful  children  ;  and  (if  that 
be  sad  and  despondent)  depress  their  spirits,  blunt  and 
take  off  the  edge  upon  which  their  future  usefulness 
and  comfort  will  much  depend.  Were  it  possible  their 
(now  glorious)  father  should  visit  and  insj^ect  you, 
would  you  not  be  troubled  to  behold  a  f  .-own  in  that  bright 
serene  face  ?  You  are  to  please  a  more  penetrating  eye, 
which  you  will  best  do,  by  putting  on  a  temper  and  de- 
portment suitable  to  your  weighty  charge  and  duty,  and 
to  the  great  purposes  for  which  God  continues  you  in  this 
world,  by  giving  over  unnecessary  solitude  and  retire- 
ment, which  (though  it  pleases)  doth  really  prejudice 
you,  and  is  more  than  you  can  bear."'* 

I  have  been  struck  with  the  fact  that  a  great 
deal  of  our  popular  music  has  words  which  re- 
late to  mothers.  A  characteristic  of  human 
nature  is  seen  in  this.  Affection  for  a  depart- 
ed mother  is  universal.  Poetical  language 
therefore  which  celebrates  her  virtues,  and 
which  is  made  to  speak  to  the  heart  through 
the  medium  of  plaintive  music,  is  exceedingly 
pleasing.  The  most  tender  emotions  are  awak- 
ened, and  tears  come  to  the  eye  as  if  by  in- 
stinct. And  even  when  a  mother  is  not  dead, 
pathetic  feelings  sway  the  soul  when  the  beau- 
tiful  traits   of  her    character   are  mentioned. 

*  Life  of  Howe  prefixed  to  his  Works,  p.  22. 


SoEEOw  AND  Home.  63 

The  hearts  of  the  most  abandoned  of  men 
can  be  reached  in  this  way,  after  all  other 
means  have  failed.  Sing  about  mother  and 
home  to  a  company  of  prisoners,  and  few  dry 
eyes  will  be  seen.  Struggling  it  may  be  for  a 
time  to  repress  their  feelings,  they  will  finally 
yield  to  the  pressure  of  nature,  and  weep 
like  children. 

*'  What  amazing  results  have  followed  a  sud- 
den  paroxysm  of  joy.  A  woman  in  the  city  of 
New  York  heard  that  her  husband  and  child 
were  on  board  a  f?hip  that  had  been  wrecked. 
Accustomed  to  go  to  the  wharf  from  day  to 
day,  as  if  desirous  of  being  nearer  the  be- 
loved objects  that  were  supposed  to  be  buried 
beneath  the  sea,  she  suddenly  beheld  them 
landing  from  a  vessel  that  had  picked  them  up. 
The  joy  on  seeing  them  safe  was  overwhelm- 
ing. After  the  first  salutation  her  reason  fled, 
and  from  that  time  to  the  present  she  has  not 
known  them.  She  still  sits  on  what  she  thinks 
the  same  rock  where  she  used  to  bewail  their 
fate,  wringing  her  hands  with  ineffable  distress  ; 
while  every  week  the  husband  and  son  visit 
her,  hoping  to  find  a  gleam  of  returning  mem- 
ory, but  in  vain."  * 

*  Dr.  Jones  :  Man,  Moral  and  Physical,  p.  56. 


64  SoEiiow. 

How  much  is  implied  in  the  words — leaving 
home.  The  daughter  may  be  going  off  to  some 
distant  boarding  school,  the  son  to  some  dis- 
tant city,  there  to  live — in  either  case  there  is 
sorrow.  Possibly  the  children  may  be  so  occu- 
pied with  the  enticing  objects  that  are  before 
them  that  their  sadness  does  not  fully  appear 
at  the  moment  when  they  leave  home.  After 
a  time,  however,  the  whole  scene  is  revived, 
and  there  is  no  want  of  sorrow.  As  it  regards 
the  parents,  they  look  forward  to  the  hour  of 
parting  with  pain.  This  increases  till  the  day 
of  separation  arrives.  When  all  are  kneeling 
around  the  family  altar,  and  the  last  prayer  is 
borne  upward  to  heaven,  there  is  heartfelt  sor- 
row. Then  come  the  final  arrangements  ;  the 
going  out  at  the  door  ;  the  good-bye  ;  the  fall- 
ing tear.  The  mother  stands  looking,  wiping 
her  eyes  :  the  father  with  choked  utterance 
retires.  It  must  be  exceedingly  trying  when 
one  leaves  home  in  order  to  spend  years  upon 
the  ocean,  or  to  travel  in  foreign  lands,  to  ex- 
plore, it  may  be,  dangerous  regions.  There  is 
an  element  of  uncertainty  here  which  increases 
the  mental  pain.  I  have  thought  that  when 
Abraham  left  home  with  Isaac,  desigidng  to 
sacrifice    him  at  the   command  of  God,  there 


Sorrow  axd  Home.  65 

must  have  been  a  tumult  of  emotion  in  the 
patriarch's  soul.  There  is  no  evidence  that  a 
single  human  being  knew  anything  of  the  in- 
tended sacrifice  except  Abraham  himself.  Not 
even  did  Isaac  know  it,  nor  Sarah  his  mother. 
To  think  of  the  living  as  dead  must  have  been 
the  experience  of  Abraham,  considering  his 
circumstances.  He  saw  his  son  laid  upon  the 
altar,  while  as  yet  he  was  not  laid  there  ;  he 
saw  him  expire  while  as  yet  he  was  in  the  ful- 
ness of  life.  Then,  too,  he  must  leave  home 
without  saying  a  word  respecting  the  great 
event.  The  feelings  of  the  mother,  when  she 
should  hear  of  the  death  of  her  son,  were  no 
doubt  realized  by  Abraham.  Thus  he  depart- 
ed with  the  burden  of  a  great  sorrow  pressing 
upon  his  heart.  There  was  a  degree  of  inward- 
ness to  his  grief  not  often  experienced.  The 
whole  was  shut  in.*  Silence  and  solitude  were 
there.  The  heavy  sigh  which  he  heaved  forth 
that  morning  as  he  left  the  tent-door  had  a  sig- 
nificance which  the  very  unconsciousness  of 
Sarah  heightened,  making  one  to  think  of  it  as 
if  it  were  th^  smoking  sacrifice  of  the  prophet's 
soul  ascending  to  God. 

Sadness  dwells  with  us  when  we  are  living 
away  from  home.     Especially  is  this  true   of 


66  SORBOW. 

those  who  are  Uving  in  a  foreign  land.  The 
sorrow  seems  to  be  increased  by  the  distance  ; 
increased  also  by  the  difficulty  of  reaching 
home.  I  have  noticed  that  a  great  war  devel- 
ops the  home  idea,  and  also  the  feeling  of  sad- 
ness. When  we  consider  the  vast  number  of 
men  who  constitute  an  army  ;  their  voluntary 
state  of  exile  ;  the  hardships  they  have  to  en- 
dure ;  the  tremendous  havoc  which  death 
makes  among  them,- — we  can  see  that  thoughts 
about  home  must  mingle  with  sadness.  Even 
the  correspondence  which  is  kept  up  between 
the  soldier  and  his  family  nurtures  the  sorrow- 
ful emotions.  Many  a  letter  is  read  and  writ- 
ten with  a  sad  pleasure.  But  whoever  the  per- 
son may  be  that  is  separated  from  home,  and 
whatever  may  be  his  employment,  there  is  a 
lonely  feeling  which  creeps  over  the  soul,  an 
inward  heaviness  which  hangs  about  the  heart. 
There  are  times  when  one  is  homesick.  This 
wears  upon  the  mind.  Force  abates.  There 
is  a  loss  of  appetite.     To  go  home  is  life. 

We  may  here  consider  how  sorrow  is  modi 
fled  by  ih^ principle  oi  association,  thousands  ot 
associational  lines  communicate  with  the  heart : 
touch  any  one  of  these,  and  there  will  be  feel- 
ing.    Sometimes,  however,  many  of  these  lines 


Sorrow  and  Home.      ,  67 

are  out  of  order,  and  consequently  there  is  no 
feeling.  We  occasionally  b  3hold  men  and  wo- 
men passing  through  scenes  of  great  bereave- 
ment, yet  with  no  feelings  of  sorrow  that  seem 
to  be  at  all  appropriate.  A  remarkable  dull- 
ness characterizes  such  persons.  There  is 
enough  to  make  them  weep,  but  they  weep 
not.  Evidently  they  are  lacking  in  the  princi- 
ple of  association.  Whole  families  are  found 
in  this  state.  One  almost  thinks  that  the  de- 
ficiency is  hereditary.  Here  are  other  persons 
who  are  in  deep  affliction.  A  remote  hint 
is  seized  at  once,  and  they  feel.  One  incident 
after  another  suggests  to  them  their  loss.  Not 
to  show  signs  of  grief  is  impossible.  Niebuhr 
speaking  of  his  child,  and  how  its  movements 
started  in  him  a  train  of  sad  emotions,  thus 
writes  :  "It  often  gives  me  a  melancholy  feel- 
ing, while  in  the  evening  he  stretches  out  his 
arms  toward  the  light,  and  makes  me  carry 
him  to  the  window,  where  he  gazes  up  into  the 
sky  with  a  fixed,  bright,  serious  look  ;  then  the 
recollection  comes  over  me  of  how  my  Milly, 
too,  gazed  up  into  the  sky  the  last  time  we 
took  her  out.     I  thank  Heaven  that  I  can  at 

least   shed   tears    over    this    remembrance."* 

, t — ■ 

*  Life  and  Letters  of  Niebuhr,  p.  350. 


68  Sorrow. 

The  action  of  the  child  in  this  case  suggested 
to  the  mind  what  the  mother  did  before  she 
died.  Tears  flow  as  the  result  of  this  revived 
act.  A  striknig  illustration  of  the  thought  be- 
fore us  is  found  in  what  took  place  during  the 
funeral  services  of  John  Wesley.  "  When  the 
minister  came  to  that  part  which  reads,  '  For- 
asmuch as  it  hath  pleased  Almighty  God  to 
take  unto  himself  the  soul  of  our  brother,''  his 
voice  changed,  and  he  substituted  the  word 
father  ;  and  the  feeling  with  which  he  did  this 
was  such,  that  the  congregation,  who  were 
shedding  silent  tears,  burst  at  once  into  loud 
weeping  J'' ^^  That  single  word  father  started  a 
new  train  of  associations.  The  change  from 
silent  tears  to  loud  weeping  showed  that  a  new 
key  had  been  struck.  Of  course,  apart  from 
the  principle  of  association,  there  is  a  real  dif- 
ference in  men  in  regard  to  feeling  and  in  re- 
gard to  the  power  which  they  have  of  suppress- 
ing it,  yet,  with  this  admission,  there  can  be  no 
question  that  a  quick  suggestiveness  does  have 
much  to  do  with  the  movement  of  sorrow.  In 
a  public  assembly  it  can  frequently  be  discov- 
ered who  has  the  associational  characteristic, 

*  Southey's  Life  of  Wesley,  vol.  ii.  p.  335. 


Sorrow  and  Home.  G9 

and  who  has  it  not.  By  starting  one  train  of 
suggestion  here  and  another  there,  during  the 
dehvery  of  a  discourse,  different  persons  are 
seen  to  feel  ;  yet  it  is  equally  certain  that  there 
is  another  class  whose  nature  is  blocked  up, — • 
association,  the  sympathies,  imagination,  are  all 
at  fault. 

When  we  think  of  the  happy  days  of  child- 
hood we  are  both  sad  and  pleased.  We  are 
pleased,  because  of  the  simplicity,  the  freedom 
from  care,  the  artless  life  and  joy  of  those 
early  years.  We  are  sad,  because  those  times 
are  gone  to  return  not  again.  Simply  in  the 
memory  do  they  live.  As  a  star  that  once 
shone  and  went  away  forever,  so  is  it  with  the 
morning  time  of  our  life.  The  fact  is  impres- 
sive that  all  men  have  a  bright  past.  As  we 
think  of  the  troubles  that  have  met  us  during 
our  short  pilgrimage,  and  that  are  meeting  us 
still,  we  call  up  the  time  when  we  moved  along 
in  quietness  and  contentment,  fearing  not  the 
chillino;  blasts  of  life. 


"  Give  me  back  the  joyous  hours, 
When  I  myself  was  ripening,  too, 
When  song,  the  fount,  flung  up  its  flowers 
Of  Ijeauty  ever  fresh  and  new. 


70  SOEKOW. 

When  a  soft  haze  the  world  was  veiling, 

Each  bud  a  miracle  bespoke, 

And  from  their  stems  a  thousand  flowers  I  broke. 

Their  fragrance  through  the  vales  exhahng. 

Give  me  the  freedom  of  that  hour, 

The  tear  of  joy,  the  pleasing  pain. 

Of  hate  and  love  the  thrilling  power. 

Oh,  give  me  back  my  youth  again.'*  * 

'  As  we  visit  the  scenes  of  our  early  years  we 
have  feelings  of  sadness  und  pleasure.  What 
a  pecuhar  pleasure  there  is  in  walking  along 
the  same  streets  where  we  used  to  walk  ;  or  in 
standing  by  some  stream  or  lake,  some  moun- 
tain or  harbor  of  ships,  where  we  used  to 
stand.  The  days  of  childhood  are  all  revived. 
There  is  where  we  played.  Along  these  places 
we  planned,  and  talked,  and  thought  what 
we  should  be  when  manhood  came.  What 
changes  we  meet  as  we  go  from  point  to  point 
in  the  regions  around.  Some  houses  are  the 
same,  but  many  new  ones  appear.  The  per- 
sons that  pass  by  us  we  know  not.  Our  old 
acquaintances  are  either  dead  or  have  moved 
away,  with  the  exception  of  one  here  and  one 
there  who  still  remain  as  memorials  of  the  past. 
The  school-house  where  we  were  drilled  for  Hfe 

*  Goethe's  Faust,  p.  21,  Brooks's  Trans. 


Sorrow  and   Home.  71 

is  gone.  The  church  which  we  used  to  attend 
is  still  standing  ;  but  new  worshipers  frequent 
its  seats,  and  a  new  pastor  guards  his  flock, 
leading  them  to  heaven.  Where  is  the  home 
in  which  we  lived  when  a  child  ?  It  is  all 
changed.  No  mother  is  there  to  welcome,  nor 
lixther  to  greet  us  with  his  smile.  They  died 
long  ago.  Brother  and  sister  sleep  at  their 
side.  .  As  a  stranger  from  a  far  off  land  we 
seem  to  be  ;  as  the  shadow  of  a  wandering 
cloud  we  pass  on.  A  voice,  as  if  it  were  the 
voice  of  God,  falls  upon  our  ear,  saying, 
"  Arise,  let  us  go  hence." 

There  is  a  feeling  that  goes  with  us  through 
life, — the  feeling  that  we  are  strayigers.  We 
may  have  comforts  around  us,  friends  around 
us,  a  home  that  we  call  our  own,  yet  the 
feelings  of  a  stranger  never  leave  the  heart. 
We  look  into  the  eternal  deeps  that  are  be- 
yond and  sigh.  This  world  pleases  us  not. 
Even  our  kindred  do  not  appear  as  if  they  were 
fully  related  to  us.  The  soul  has  evidently 
other  relationships  than  those  of  time.  There 
is  a  Father  who  is  eternal  ;  there  are  brothers 
who  never  die.  All  things  here  are  wanting. 
We  are  made  for  a  higher  sphere  ;  fashioned 
for  God.  Our  nature  is  broken  by  sin  ;  like 
meteoric  stones  we  have   reached  this   world. 


72  Somiow. 

We  look  around  for  something,  but  cannot  al- 
ways tell  just  what  we  want.  The  word  better 
simply  goes  with  us  wherever  we  go,  and  makes 
us  restless  wherever  we  stay.  We  want  a  bet- 
ter climate  and  better  health,  better  houses  and 
a  better  position  in  life,  better  souls  and  a  bet- 
ter world.  No  word  so  significantly  points  out 
the  moral  condition  of  man  as  the  word  better. 
That  we  are  all  astray  is  evident.  Home  is  not 
here.  We  think  of  the  lands  of  eternity  ;  the 
love  that  is  nothing  but  love  ;  the  joy  that  be- 
comes more  joyful  forever.  When  Neander 
was  upon  his  dying  bed,  he  said,  as  in  the 
midst  of  a  dream,  "  I  am  weary,  let  us  now 
make  ready  to  go  home."  Men  all  over  the 
world  can  utter  the  same  language.  Their 
souls  are  weary ;  they  wish  to  go  home. 

"  I  feel  a  long  unwonted  yearning 
For  that  calm,  pensive  spirit-realm,  to-day  ; 
Like  an  ^jlian  lyre,   (the  breeze  returning,) 
Floats  in  uncertain  tones  my  lisping  lay  : 
Strange  awe  comes  o'er  me,  tear  on  tear  falls  burning, 
The  rigid  heart  to  milder  mood  gives  way  ; 
What  I  possess,  I  see  afar  off  lying. 
And  what  I  lost  is  real  and  undying." 


CHAPTER  Y. 

THE  LONELINESS  OF  THE  HUMAN  SPIRIT  A8 
AFFECTING  ITS  SOBRO  W\ 

THE  thought  of  the  present  chapter  is  not 
sohtude  of  place,  but  the  sohtude  of  a 
soul.  It  is  supposed  that  no  one  can  fully  real- 
ize the  lonely  nature  of  his  existence  without 
having  in  connection  with  that  a  feeling  oi 
heaviness.  It  is  sad  to  think  that  so  many  ot 
our  race  spend  their  years  in  the  midst  ot 
gloom  ;  sailing  upon  a  sea  beset  with  storms ; 
approaching  and  entering  the  harbor  of  eter- 
nity, in  the  midst  of  fear  and  darkness.  There 
are  children  even  whose  pilgrimage  among  us 
is  one  of  painful  loneliness.  Their  little  spirits 
have  been  wilted  by  the  frosts  of  spring,  and  no 
summer-like  visions  ever  play  around  their 
hearts.  In  silence  and  bashfulness  they  track 
their  way  to  the  unseen  future  ;  never  opening 
their  mind  to  any  creature  upon  earth;  and  no 


74  SOKEOW. 

kind  friend  getting  near  enough  to  them  to 
cheer  them  on  to  God's  land.  Women  in  a 
pecuhar  sense  are  lonely.  This  may  arise  from 
their  nature,  from  their  want  of  experience  in 
many  things,  from  the  fact  that  they  are  more 
dependent  than  men,  and  more  by  themselves. 
Each  human  being,  howeyer,  is  alone.  No  two 
ever  felt  the  very  same  feehng,  nor  printed  the 
same  foot-mark.  Each  soul  has  an  experience 
which  strictly  and  eternally  is  its  own. 

Personality  and  oneness  go  together.  I  feel 
that  I  am.  Consciousness  isolates  the  soul.  I 
cannot  be  another  ;  am  destined  to  be  myself ; 
from  the  thought  of  my  creation,  I  cannot 
escape.  I  remember  that  I  once  was;  I  am 
conscious  that  now  I  hve ;  I  anticipate  a  to- 
morrow when  I  shall  still  exist.  A  kind  of 
necessity  is  laid  upon  me.  Instinctively  I 
connect  myself  with  time.  From  it  I  cannot 
escape  ;  and  because  I  cannot,  I  know  that  I 
am  a  man.  It  makes  no  difference  that  a 
world  of  human  beings  crowd  around  me  ;  I 
am  never  lost  in  the  midst  of  this  ocean  of  men. 
There  is  always  an  /.  More  than  that, — there 
is  always  a  thou.  More  still, — there  is  always 
a  he.  As  a  single  person,  therefore,  I  must  re- 
main ;  solitude    of    existence    walls    me    in. 


LONELCsESS   OF  THE    HuMAN   HeAKT.  75 

Then  I  have  a  will.     That  individuahzes  me 
forever. 

The  loneliness  of  the  human  spnit  is  seen- 
also  in  the  fact  of  aGcountahility.  If  I  were  at 
all  inclined  to  lose  sight  of  my  individual  ex- 
istence, and  to  be  carried  along  blindly  by  the 
force  of  a  multitude  of  men,  my  conscience  at 
any  moment  could  lead  me  into  the  great 
sphere  of  moral  realities,  and  there  I  should 
feel  that  I  was  alone.  I  am  related  to  law,*  to 
government,  to  Grod.  The  design  is  not  that  I 
should  (loat  about  like  a  speck  of  dust  in  the 
atmosphere  of  the  universe.  In  my  heart  I 
may  be  alienated  from  God,  but  in  my  con- 
science I  am  fastened  to  him  by  an  eternal 
ethi'cal  principle.  It  is  impossible  for  me  to 
snap  that  asunder.  If  I  say  that  accountabil- 
ity is  one  of  the  troublesome  dreams  of  the 
race,  and  has  no  reality,  that  will  not  change  ■ 
it.  Man  is  accountable  to  God,  whatever  he 
may  say,  think,  or  do.  This  fearful  fact  sin- 
gles us  out.     We  stand  alone. 

How  solitary  is  human  destiny.  Each  man 
is  on  his  way  to  a  fixed  state  of  being.  In 
the  midst  of  profound  solitude  human  souls  are 
ripening  for  eternal  worlds.  Active  or  idle, 
conscious  or  unconscious,  each  mortal  is  on   a 


76  Sorrow. 

secluded  journey  to  the  great  future.  Any  one 
who  thinks  critically  upon  human  probation 
will  see  spread  over  it  an  air  of  solitude. 
What  doubts,  uncertainties,  struggles,  and  griefs, 
there  are  !  How  we  have  to  test,  and  weigh, 
and  work  in  the  line  of^probabilities,  in  order 
to  find  the  truth  !  Sometimes  a  single  word 
would  make  the  whole  clear,  but  the  single 
word  is  withheld.  Our  one  season  of  probation 
must  be  passed  upon  this  strange,  solitary 
world.  We  cannot  leave  this  earth  for  remote 
realms,  that  among  their  inhabitants  we  might 
find  the  information  which  we  desire.  Here 
we  are  born,  here  we  are  to  prei^are  for  eter- 
nity, and  here  we  die.  Our  weakness  and  great- 
ness, our  faith  and  knowledge,  our  hope  and 
fear,  our  sin  and  the  holiness  we  need  so  much, 
all  press  in  upon  us  the  fact  of  solitariness. 
Perhaps  there  is  no  time  when  the  solitude  ot 
man  is  felt  so  truly  as  when  he  is  about  to  die. 
Interests  and  topics  which  formerly  occupied 
attention  for  long  periods  together,  are  now 
allowed  to  sink,  and  disappear.  The  man  is 
alone  in  the  sunless  valley  of  death.  A  strange 
chill  creeps  over  the  whole  being.  Retiring 
from  all  that  is  outward,  the  soul  sinks  into 
itself.     In    a    few   minutes    eternity   will    be 


Loneliness  of  the  Human  Heabt.        77 

reached.  The  man  is  dead.  A  lone  spirit  is 
with  its  Judge  ;  a  spirit  that  has  been  sinful, 
and  that  may  be  sinful  still.  How  solemn  is 
the  solitude  ! 

These  ideas  touching  individuality,  accounta- 
bility, and  human  destiny,  form  the  ground  of 
that  seclusion  which  belongs  to  a  fallen  soul. 
A  peculiar  sadness  springs  from  such  a  pecuhar 
fact  of  existence.  The  following  thoughts  may 
now  be"  pondered  : 

A  feeling  of  reserve  may  be  said  to  belong  to 
every  human  being.  We  speak  of  certain  men 
as  distant,  difficult  to  approach,  hard  to  get  ac- 
quainted with.  We  speak  of  another  class  as 
free,  open-hearted,  sociable.  Still,  however 
much  men  may  seem  to  differ  in  these  respects, 
it  is  certainly  a  fact  that  all  have  an  element  of 
reserve  ;  only  that  some  have  more  of  it  than 
others.  We  notice  also  that  a  good  man,  easy 
of  access,  perhaps  with  no  great  amount  of 
mental  power,  is  loved;  while  another  man, 
equally  good,  but  not  easy  of  access,  yet  with 
a  richer  mind,  is  simply  respected.  Deep  re- 
serve springs  from  a  variety  of  causes  ;  as  from 
bashfulness,  quietness,  thoughtfulness,  gloom, 
pride.  Or  a  person  may  be  dull,  obstinate, 
selfish,  and  misanthropic, — these  characteristics 


78  Sorrow. 

generating  the  same  state.  Do  the  pure  spirits 
of  eternity  have  anything  Uke  reserve  ?  Are 
they  not  accustomed  to  show  the  contents  of 
their  minds  to  each  other?  It  is  difficult  to 
answer.  Under  certain  6ircumstances,  a  holy 
being  may  be  reserved — as  Christ  sometimes 
was  when  upon  earth. 

Secrecy  is  also  a  characteristic  of  man.  In 
each  soul  is  a  world  of  hidden  experiences. 
How  many  shadows  fall  upon  us  which  we 
never  mention!  how  many  doubts  which  we 
tell  to  no  one  !  These  doubts  are  quite  fre- 
quently warning  voices  of  the  soul  ;  voices 
which  speak  of  danger  ahead,  and  death.  Some 
heed  them,  and  are  saved  ;  some  are  too  proud 
to  heed  them,  and  are  lost.  What  conflicts, 
faintings  of  soul,  aspirations,  shut  up  in  dark- 
ness, do  we  have  ! — The  thoughts  that  wander 
far  off ;  the  pining  away  in  the  midst  of  the 
deep  solitudes  of  our  being;  the  despairing 
moments  that  seem  like  death,  and  the  disquiet 
that  keeps  on  forever.  How  much  of  ignor- 
ance is  concealed,  and  with  what  a  small  capi- 
tal does  the  soul  transact  its  business.  How 
large  the  volume  of  sin  which  every  maa  car- 
ries secretly  in  his  bosom, — proud  thoughts, 
foul  imaginations,  enmities  and  envies,  which 


Loneliness  of  the  Human  Heart.  79 

rankle  in  the  heart.  And  as  to  the  full  history 
of  our  guilt  and  remorse,  we  never  publish  it. 
The  solitude  of  all  this,  and  the  sadness,  can  be 
seen  at  a  glance.  We  may  think  souls  also 
that  have  no  guide,  and  that  are  compelled  to 
look  through  all  their  being  if  perchance  they 
may  find  one  of  the  milestones  of  God.  It 
is  possible  that  with  the  light  which  is  all  about 
us,  we  forget  the  solitary  spirits  that  are  anx- 
iously seeking  for  truth,  and  for  a  remedy  that 
will  cure  the  evil  of  the  heart.  Among  the 
purer  characters  of  earth  there  is  a  tendency 
to  meditate  on  themes  of  pressing  moment. 
That  much  of  this  is  wrapped  up  in  the  secrecy 
of  the  soul  is  quite  certain.  We  have  also  fa- 
vored seasons  of  communion  with  God,  which 
really  mark  the  great  historic  times  of  a  spirit 
on  its  solitary  passage  to  eternity.  To  think  of 
the  prayers  that  ascend  to  Heaven  without  a 
witnessing  ear  ;  the  searchings  that  are  made 
into  inward  character  ;  the  penitence  which  no 
one  knows  but  God, — to  think  of  these  amid 
the  deep  solitudes  of  hfe,  is  impressive.  The 
highest  and  purest  existence  is  that  which  is 
unseen  ;  the  perfection  of  beauty  no  eye  be- 
holds. 

"Interesting  it  is  to  observe,"  remarks  De 


80  Sorrow. 

Quincey,  ''how  certainly  all  deep  feelings  agree 
in  this,  that  they  seek  for  solitude,  and  are 
nursed  by  solitude.  Deep  grief,  deep  love, 
how  naturally  do  these  ally  themselves  with  re- 
ligious feeling  ;  and  all  three — love,  grief,  re- 
ligion— are  haunters  of  solitary  places.  Love, 
grief,  the  passion  of  reverie,  or  the  mystery  of 
devotion, — what  were  these  without  solitude  ? 
All  day  long,  when  it  was  not  impossible  for  me 
to  do  so,  I  sought  the  most  silent  and  seques- 
tered nooks  in  the  grounds  about  the  house,  or 
in  the  neighboring  fields.  The  awful  stillness 
occasionally  of  summer  noons,  when  no  winds 
were  abroad,  the  appealing  silence  of  grey  or 
misty  afternoons, — these  were  fascinations  as 
of  witchcraft.  Into  the  woods  or  the  desert  air 
I  gazed,  as  if  some  comfort  lay  hid  in  them. 
I  wearied  the  heavens  with  my  inquest  of  be- 
seeching looks.  I  tormented  the  blue  depths 
with  obstinate  scrutiny,  sweeping  them  with 
my  eyes,  and  searching  them  forever  after  one 
angelic  face  that  might,  perhaps,  have  permis- 
sion to  reveal  itself  for  a  moment."* 

In  certain  natures  there  is  a  painful  feeling  of 
solitude  at  night.     As  one  lays  down  his  head 

*  Confessions  of  an  Opium-Eater,  p.  184. 


Loneliness  of  the  Human  Heabt.         81 

upon  his  pillow  in  order  to  fall  asleep,  there  is 
a  shrinking  of  the  whole  being  into  a  kind  of 
dreary  isolation.  The  chief  language  at  such  a 
time  is  a  sigh.  The  soul  feels  as  if  the  whole 
of  mankind  had  dropped  away.  There  is  sim- 
ply a  deep  realization  of  self.  If  the  sense  of 
sin  and  misery  is  profound,  the  loneliness  is 
deepened.  Silent  prayer  will  quite  likely 
ascend, — the  breathing  of  a  wounded  and 
weary  spirit.  Such  prayer  has  no  art !  no 
wasted  words  !  no  words  without  feeling.  It  is 
simply,  0  Lord,  forgive  my  sins  !  help  me  to  be 
holy  !  make  me  well.  Nothing  seems  real  now 
but  God,  eternity,  the  soul,  and  spotless  purity. 
The  solitary  creature  will  take  all  these  in  as  it 
were  with  one  consciousness.  There  will  be  a 
solemn  abstraction!  the  soul  transfused  into 
one  state  !  varied  movements  arrested,  and  a 
single  current  moving  in  a  circle.  If  the  night 
is  stormy,  dreary,  cold  and  dark,  this  will  add 
loneliness  to  loneliness.  The  person  will  keep 
musing  with  closed  eyes  ;  he  will  arrange  his 
head  for  rest,  yet  resting  not.  It  would  seem 
almost  as  if  such  night-musing  were  a  kind  of 
thinking  emotion, — the  feelings  and  the  under- 
standing blending  together.  This  lonely  being 
falls  asleep,  as  does  the  shipwrecked  sailor  on 


82  SOKROW. 

a  rock  of  the  ocean,  as  a  stray  cloud  sleeps  on 
the  bosom  of  night. 

How  strange  is  the  fact  that  we  never  see 
sorrow  as  it  is  ! — a  part  is  always  hidden  or  re- 
pressed. When  persons  find  the  tide  of  sad 
emotion  rising,  what  an  effort  they  make  to 
keep  it  down  !  how  hard  they  struggle  not  to 
shed  tears  !  And  when  tears  really  come  to 
the  eye,  and  they  come  so  fast  that  it  is  diffi- 
cult to  see  distinctly,  yet  many  a  time  they  will 
be  allowed  to  run  down  the  face  before  the  at- 
tempt is  made  to  wipe  them  off ;  and  even 
then  it  is  done  as  if  the  person  were  half 
ashamed.  Individuals  evidently  look  upon 
shedding  tears  as  a  weakness, — at  least  they 
think  so  at  certain  times.  If  we  could  behold 
sorrow  acting  itself  out  with  all  its  native 
power,  what  a  sight  we  should  see  !  A  groan,  a 
sob,  a  choking  in  the  throat,  now  make  known 
the  fact  of  stifled  grief  There  is  great  truth- 
fulness to  the  language  of  certain  of  the  Micro- 
nesian  islanders  when  they  say  that  they  have 
a  sorrowful  throaty  instead  of  saying  that  they 
have  a  sorrowful  heart.  Pungent  grief,  when  it 
leads  to  crying,  whether  the  attempt  is  made 
to  repress  it  or  not,  generally  is  connected  with 
a  struggle  or  pain  in  the  throat.     Will  the  sor- 


Loneliness  of  the  Soul.  83 

row  of  eternity  be  repressed  in  any  degree  ? 
or  will  it  burst  forth  in  the  totahty  of  its 
power  ?  Let  the  reader  answer.  As  far  as 
the  present  hfe  is  concerned,  there  are  persons 
who  can  so  hide  intense  grief  in  the  depths  of 
their  being,  that  a  stranger  could  not  tell  by 
looking  at  them,  or  by  conversing  with  them,  of 
its  existence.  They  can  even  go  so  far  as  to 
appear  to  be  the  most  happy  beings  in  exist- 
ence, while  in  reality  their  spirit  is  laboring  like 
a  ship  in  the  storm.  Think  of  a  clown  com- 
pelled to  act  his  part,  the  day  after  the  burial 
of  his  wife  !  There  is  no  doubt  that  some  of 
the  most  frolicsome  compositions,  as  well  as 
some  of  the  most  peaceful  and  serene,  have 
been  written  while  their  authors  were  in  the 
midst  of  the  darkest  melancholy.  The  loneli- 
ness of  the  human  spirit  under  such  circum- 
stances is  like  that  of  a  volcanic  island  looking 
out  upon  the  infinite  ocean, — the  fires  burning- 
deep  down  out  of  sight,  while  on  the  surface  is 
a  mantle  of  green. 

Language  never  fully  unfolds  sorrow.  We 
simply  have  broken  pieces  of  it, — a  faint  out- 
line. Still,  though  the  medium  of  communica- 
tion be  imperfect,  the  sorrow  is  to  a  great  ex- 
tent understood.     The  reason  of  this  is,  that 


84  Sorrow. 

each  one  knows  in  his  heart  the  sorrow  that  is 
shadowed  forth  by  language.  The  soul  thus 
makes  up  what  is  not  expressed.  A  mere  hint 
is  sometimes  all  that  is  wanted.  A  simple 
pointing  to  the  pathway  of  grief,  allowing  one 
to  walk  along  that  pathway  by  his  own  inward 
experience,  is  frequently  the  method  which  na- 
ture adopts.  The  mention  of  a  grave,  a  part- 
ing, a  particular  day,  a  lonesome  house  or  heart, 
will  at  times  speak  as  powerfully  to  a  soul  as  a 
lengthened  chapter  would.  Even  a  solitary 
tear  or  sigh,  a  simple  look  or  a  silence,  may  be 
the  highest  eloquence  to  a  spirit  that  knows  the 
nature  of  grief. 

"I  sometimes  hold  it  half  a  sin 

To  put  in  words  the  grief  I  feel ; 
For  words,  like  nature,  half  reveal 
And  half  conceal  the  Soul  within." 

"  But,  for  the  unquiet  heart  and  brain, 
A  use  in  measured  language  lies  ; 
The  sad  mechanic  exercise, 
Like  dull  narcotics,  numbing  pain." 

"  In  words,  like  weeds,  I'lJ  wrap  me  o'er, 
Like  coarsest  clothes  against  the  cold  ; 
But  that  large  grief  which  these  unfold 
Is  given  in  outhne  and  no  more." 


I 


Loneliness  of  the  Soul.  85 

Another  thought,  is  the  solitude  of  want 
Just  to  keep  repeating  these  words  with  a  due 
sense  of  their  meaning  is  oppressive.  An  im- 
mortal spirit  realizing  that  it  has  nothing. 
Everything  gone  in  which  it  once  trusted. 
Fame,  pleasure,  knowledge  even,  sunk  into 
forgetfulness  by  the  utter  pressure  of  the  soul's 
need.  The  moralities  of  life  found  to  be 
superficial.  The  motives  of  life  with  no  divine 
quality  about  them.  Inward  sanctity  seen  not 
to  exist.  Hopes  vain  and  destructive.  A  sin- 
ful self  all  that  remains.  Then  the  sense  of 
ruin,  wretchedness,  want.  This  is  a  solitude 
whose  breathing  is  a  continual  sigh.  Physical 
want  is  but  the  counterpart  of  this.  Here  is  an 
aged  woman,  weak  and  sickly,  who  is  passing 
away  her  days  in  a  dreary  dwelling  by  herself. 
She  has  neither  food  nor  fire,  and  it  is  winter. 
No  friend  is  near  to  help.  Courage  and  hope 
depart.  Body  and  soul  shrink  into  themselves. 
With  her  mind  full  of  memories  of  the  past, 
and  miseries  of  the  present,  she  enters  into  the 
great  silence.  Here  is  a  sailor  clinging  to  a 
plank  in  the  midst  of  the  ocean.  His  ship  has 
foundered.  The  waves  now  roll  over  him  ; 
hunger  and  thirst  torment  him ;  the  night 
drags  slowly  along  ;    no  vessel   appears  with 


86  SORBOW. 

the  day.  "Wearied  and  wasted  he  falls  from 
his  plank,  and  sinks  into  the  darkness  of  the 
deep.  Two  children  are  lost.  They  wander 
here  and  there  till  the  night  gathers  about 
them.  They  fall  asleep.  In  the  morning  they 
awake  and  seek  for  their  home.  They  find  it 
not.  Days  and  nights  pass.  Clasped  together 
they  are  found  dead  on  the  bank  of  a  stream. 
What  solitude  and  grief  do  such  cases  show 
forth !  Dante  presents  us  with  the  following 
picture  of  a  father  and  his  sons,  who  were 
allowed  to  famish  in  a  tower  : 

"  I  looked  upon  the  visage  of  my  sons. 
I  wept  not  :  so  all  stone  I  felt  within. 
They  wept  :  and  one,  my  little  Anselm,  cried, 
*  Thou  lookest  so !     Father,  what  ails  thee  ? '    Yet 
I  shed  no  tear,  nor  answer'd  all  that  day 
Nor  the  next  night,  until  another  sun 
Came  oat  upon  the  world.     When  a  faint  beam 
Had  to  our  doleful  prison  made  its  way, 
And  in  four  countenances  I  descried 
The  image  of  my  own,  on  either  hand 
Through  agony  I  bit  ;  and  they,  who  thought 
I  did  it  through  desire  of  feeding,  I'ose 
O'  the  sadden,  and  cried,  'Father,  we  should  grieve 
Far  less,  if  thou  wouldst  eat  of  us  :  thou  gavest 
These  weeds  of  miserable  flesh  we  wear  ; 
And  do  thou  strip  them  off  from  us  again.* 
Then,  not  to  make  them  sadder,  I  kept  down 
My  spirit  in  stillness.     That  day  and  the  next 


Loneliness  of  the  Soul.  87 

We  all  were  silent.     Ah,  obdurate  earth  I 
Why  open'dsfc  not  upon  us  ?     When  we  came 
To  the  foarth  day,  then  Gaddo  at  my  feet 
Oatstretch'd  did  fling  him,  crying,  '  Hast  no  help 
For  me,  my  father  ?'     There  he  died  ;  and  e'en 
Plainly  as  thou  seest  me,  saw  I  the  three 
Fall  one  by  one  'twixt  the  fifth  day  and  sixth  : 
Whence  I  betook  me,  now  grown  blind,  to  grope 
Over  them  all,  and  for  three  days  aloud 
Call'd  on  them  who  were  dead."  * 


The  Diviae  Comedy,  H.  canto  33. 


CHAPTER  YI. 

SORROW  AS  CONNECTED  WITH  THE  LOVE  THAT 
SUBSISTS  BETWEEN  THE  SEXES. 

SOME  of  the  most  touclimg  compositions 
we  have,  relate  to  the  sorrow  of  love.  I 
question  whether  there  is  a  single  language  in 
existence  that  does  not  refer  to  it.  In  fact  re- 
ligion, war,  and  love  with  its  sighs  and  sorrows, 
may  be  viewed  as  the  chief  staple  of  the  early 
writings  of  tribes  and  nations.  The  Bible, 
which  delineates  human  nature  more  truthfully 
than  any  other  book  in  existence,  thinks  it  no 
infringement  of  modesty  to  mention  the  sum- 
mer-like attachments  of  man.  What  a  fine 
picture  of  a  simple  age  do  we  behold  when  the 
servant  of  Abraham  goes  forth  on  a  mission  of 
the  heart, — a  mission  whose  object  is  to  find  a 
wife  for  his  master's  son.     How  religiously  and 


The  Sorrow  of  Love.  •  89 

suitably  the  whole  matter  is  conducted.  We 
cannot  read  the  account  without  having  our 
emotions  stirred,  even  as  the  bosom  of  the  lake 
is  stirred  by  the  gentle  breeze  that  passes  over 
it.  "  And  he  said  unto  them,  Hinder  me  not, 
seeing  the  Lord  hath  prospered  my  way.  And 
they  said.  We  will  call  the  damsel,  and  inquire 
at  her  mouth.  And  they  called  Rebekah,  and 
said  unto  her.  Wilt  thou  go  with  this  man  ? 
And  she  said,  I  will  go."  The  simple  shep- 
herdess was  willing  to  leave  all  for  the  sake  of 
one  whom  already  she  loved  ;  loved  although 
as  yet  he  had  not  been  seen.  This  committing 
of  the  interest  of  one  being  into  the  hands  of 
another  is  strange,  solemn,  yet  beautiful  and 
touching.  The  story  of  Jacob  and  Eachel 
also  is  a  story  of  the  affections.  Each  soul 
heaved  with  kindred  emotions.  No  art  is  seen ; 
no  art  was  necessary.  The  flame  of  love 
seemed  to  have  burst  forth  without  any  effort. 
"  Jacob  served  seven  years  for  Rachel,  and 
they  seemed  unto  him  but  a  few  days,  for  the 
love  he  had  to  her."  Pleasantly  the  years 
passed.  The  joy  of  two  spirits  had  become 
one  ;  and  time  that  is  long  to  hearts  that  are 
cold,  was  short  to  them  by  reason  of  a  happy 
love.     In  heaven  though  there  be  nothing  but 


90  SOBKOW. 

the  roll  of  ceaseless  agesi,  yet  no  one  is  ever 
weary,  because  joy  and  love  bear  the  hours 
along  upon  their  wings. 

That  is  a  sigaificant  moment  in  the  develop- 
ment of  human  beings  when  they  begin  to  love, 
A  new  motive  works  around  the  heart,  and  a 
new  object  stands  out  before  the  soul.  The 
imaginatioa  has  visions  which  it  had  not  before, 
— ^brighter  and  more  pleasurable.  Longings 
travel  through  the  spirit ;  sighs  exhale  from 
the  heart ;  the  fragrance  of  love  spreads 
around.  The  phrase  '' love-sicJc/^  though  it 
may  be  deemed  sentimental,  is  a  true  feeling 
of  the  soul.  The  very  ardency  of  the  desire 
becomes  painful.  The  spirit  is  quick  and  lan- 
guishing at  the  same  time.  The  very  features 
give  forth  a  new  expression.  The  eye  is  apt  to 
have  a  dreamy  cast.  Sometimes  there  is  a  look 
at  a  certain  object,  yet  nothing  seen  distinctly, 
the  very  tone  of  the  voice  is  modified  by  the 
passion  of  the  soul.  Words  of  tenderness  and 
trifling  may  follow  each  other  ;  also  the  sigh 
and  the  smile. 

In  the  sorrow  of  love  there  is  an  element  of 
tenderness  and  pleasure.  This  throws  an  at- 
traction around  it.  Two  hearts  discover  that 
they  beat  in  unison.     Nothing  is  low  and  re- 


The  SoBiiow  of  Love.  91 

pelling.  There  is  therefore  dehght.  One  of 
the  charms  of  courtship  is  the  pleasing  and 
tender  sadness  that  is  connected  with  it.  This 
kind  of  sadness  seems  hke  the  chant  of  love. 
In  married  hfe  it  appears  when  all  is  pure  ; 
especially  during  the  early  part  of  it.  Dr. 
Lyman  Beecher  mentions  the  following  inci- 
dent :  "  Soon  after  our  marriage  we  were  rid- 
ing together  from  Sag  Harbor.  With  great 
good  nature  we  were  reconnoitering  to  find  if 
there  were  any  faults  in  each  other  which 
might  be  the  occasion  of  trouble.  I  told  her 
I  did  not  know  as  I  had  any  faults — unless  one : 
that  I  was  passionate,  quick,  and  quick  over  ; 
but  if  she  answered  quick  we  might  have 
trouble.  Her  face  overspread  with  a  glow  of 
emotion  and  tears  flowed  ;  and  that  single 
thing  prevented  the  realization  of  the  evil  for- 
ever. If  she  saw  I  was  touched,  she  never 
said  a  word — she  appreciated  the  thing  ;  she 
entered  into  my  character  entirely."  ''  I  scarcely 
ever  saw  her  agitated  to  tears.  Once,  soon 
after  we  had  moved  in  our  new  house,  the  two 
pigs  did  something  that  vexed  me  ;  I  got  angry 
and  thrashed  them.  She  came  to  the  door  and 
interposed.  The  fire  hadn't  got  out.  I  said 
quickly,    '  Go   in  V      She   started,    but  hadn't 


92  Soiirtow. 

more  than  time  to  turn  before  I  was  at  lier 
side,  and  threw  my  arms  round  her  neck  and 
kissed  her,  and  told  her  I  was  sorry.  Then 
she  wept."  * 

The  literature  of  love  is  almost  sure  to  have  a 
vein  of  sadness  running  through  it.  Why  are 
novels  read  to  such  an  extent  ?  They  are 
chiefly  read  because  they  recount  the  scenes  of 
love  and  sorrow.  Take  these  characteristics 
away,  and  novels  would  be  quite  insipid.  How 
many  love-songs  are  struck  on  a  minor  key. 
Separation,  it  may  be,  from  one  that  is  loved 
inspires  the  song  ;  perhaps  the  pain  of  parting 
and  the  last  look  ;  perhaps  the  charms  of  the 
object  of  affection,  and  the  death  that  soon 
withered  the  fair  flower.  There  is  a  great  deal 
of  beauty  and  pathos  in  Burns's  ''Highland 
Mary." 

"  How  sweetly  bloom'd  the  gay  green  bii'k, 

How  rich  the  hawthorn's  blossom  ; 
As  underneath  their  fragrant  shade 

I  clasp'd  her  to  my  bosom  ! 
The  golden  hours  on  eagle  wings, 

Flew  o'er  me  and  my  dearie  ; 
For  dear  to  me,  as  light  and  life. 

Was  my  sweet  Highland  Mary. 

*  Autobiography  and  Correspondence,  vol.  i.  p.  122. 


The  Sorkow  of  Love.  93 

Wi  many  a  vow,  and  lock'd  embrace, 

Our  parting  was  fu  tender  ! 
And  pledging  oft  to  meet  again, 

We  tore  oursels  asunder ! 
But  oh !  fell  death's  untimely  frost, 

That  nipt  my  flower  so  early  ! 
Now  green's  the  sod  and  cauld*s  the  clay. 

That  wraps  my  Highland  Mary  1 

O  pale,  pale  now,  those  rosy  lips, 

I  oft  hae  kisa'd  sae  fondly  ! 
And  closed  for  ay  the  sparkling  glance, 

That  dwelt  on  me  sae  kindly ! 
A  mouldering  now  in  silent  dust. 

That  heart  that  lo'ed  me  dearly  ! 
But  still  within  my  bosom's  core, 

Shall  Hve  Iny  Highland  Mary." 

There  is  a  sadness  which  results  from  being 
crossed  in  love.  It  has  been  supposed  that  Pas- 
cal was  strongly  attached  to  the  sister  of  the 
Uuke  de  Roannes  ;  yet  he  never  ventured  to 
make  known  to  her  the  existence  of  his  love. 
This  very  secrecy  of  a  passion  caused  it  to  eat 
into  his  spirit.  A  melancholy  naturally  deep, 
must  have  become  still  deeper.  The  story  of 
Dante's  love  for  Beatrice  is  very  beautiful  and 
affecting.  His  heart  was  set  upon  this  young 
woman  when  he  was  quite  young.  He  first 
saw  her  at  a  banquet  in  her  father's  house. 


94  Sorrow. 

Her  rank  in  life  was  the  same  as  that  of  his 
own.  For  years  he  thought  and  sighed  about 
her.  Tlie  time  came,  however,  when  they 
parted  from  each  other.  They  were  parted 
forever.  To  forget  her  was  impossible.  She 
was  the  idol  of  his  heart ;  the  dream  of  his 
life.  She  was  married  to  another,  rather  than 
to  the  one  who  has  made  her  name  immortal : 
but  soon  she  died.  Dante  was  only  about 
twenty-five  years  of  age  when  she  passed 
away.  Thoughts  of  a  new  life  entered  his 
mind.  A  sadness  that  never  left  him  bore 
heavy  upon  his  soul.  He  married  ;  but  the 
chief  affection  of  his  heart  had  been  given  to 
Beatrice.  In  the  great  eternity  he  seemed  to 
see  her  spirit.  He  could  not  write  his  poem 
without  placing  her  name  there.  He  must 
commune  with  the  object  of  his  love.  Her 
image  was  stamped  upon  his  soul. 

A  touching  scene  is  described  by  Ossian, 
which  relates  to  a  certain  hero  who  killed  his 
loved  one  through  mistake.  The  words  are 
these  :  ''He  went  to  the  door  of  Mora.  The 
daughter  of  Conloch  would  try  his  love.  She 
clothed  her  fair  sides  with  his  armor  ;  she  strode 
from  the  cave  of  Ronan.  He  thought  it  was 
his  foe.     His    heart    beat    high.     His    color 


The  Sorrow  of  Love.  95 

changed,  and  darkness  dimmed^ his  eyes.  He 
drew  the  bow.  The  arrow  flew,  Gralvina  fell 
in  blood  !  He  ran  with  wildness  in  his  steps  ; 
he  called  the  daughter  of  Conloch.  No  answer 
in  the  lonely  rock.  Where  art  thou,  0  my 
love  ?  He  saw  at  length  her  heaving  heart, 
beating  around  the  arrow  he  threw.  0  Con- 
loch's  daughter,  is  it  thou  ?  He  sunk  upon  her 
breast !  The  hunters  found  the  hapless  pair  ; 
he  afterwards  walked  the  hill.  But  many  and 
silent  were  his  steps  around  the  dark  dwelling 
of  his  love.  The  fleet  of  the  ocean  came.  He 
fought  ;  the  strangers  fled.  He  searched  for 
death  along  the  field.  But  who  could  slay 
the  mighty  Comal  ?  He  threw  away  his  dark- 
brown  shield.  An  arrow  found  his  manly 
breast.  He  sleeps  with  his  loved  Galvina  at 
the  noise  of  the  sounding  surge  !  Their  green 
tombs  are  seen  by  the  mariner,  when  he  bomids 
on  the  waves  of  the  north."  * 

How  tragic  the  love  which  subsisted  between 
Abelard  and  Heloise !  Stained  with  a  sin 
which  hke  all  sin  must  be  condemned,  yet  there 
was  an  affection  and  a  sorrow  which  will  never 
fail    to    touch   the   heart.     "When   you   are 

*  Fingal,  book  ii. 


96  Sorrow. 

pleased,"  writes  Heloise,  "  everything  seema 
lovely  to  me.  Notliing  is  frightful  or  dijQficult 
when  you  are  by.  I  am  only  weak  when  I  am 
alone,  and  unsupported  by  you  ;  and  therefore 
it  depends  on  you  alone  that  I  may  be  such  as 
you  desire.  Even  within  these  gloomy  walls, 
my  heart  springs  toward  you  with  more  affec- 
tion than  it  felt,  if  possible,  in  the  gay  and  glit- 
tering world.  Had  pleasure  been  my  guide, 
the  world  would  have  been  the  theatre  of 
my  joys.  Two  and  twenty  years  only  of 
my  life  had  worn  away,  when  the  lover  on 
whom  my  soul  doted  was  cruelly  torn  from 
my  arms  ;  and  at  that  age  female  charms  are  not 
generally  despised  ;  but,  instead  of  seeking  to 
indulge  the  pleasures  of  youth,  your  Heloise, 
when  deprived  of  thee,  renounced  the  world, 
suppressed  the  emotions  of  sense,  at  a  tiAie 
when  the  pulses  beat  with  the  warmest  ardor  j 
and  buried  myself  within  the  cold  and  cheer- 
less region  of  the  cloister.  To  you  she  conse- 
crated the  flower  of  her  charms  ;  to  you  she 
now  devotes  the  poor  remains  of  faded  beauty  ; 
and  dedicates  to  Heaven  and  to  you,  her  tedious 
days  and  widowed  nights  in  solitude  and  sor- 
row." * 

*  Quoted  in  Zimmerman's  Solitude,  part  ii.  chap.  vi. 


The  Sorrow  of  Love.  97 

There  is  a  consuming  sadness  when  the  one 
we  lov^e  has  forsaken^  us.  Just  in  proportion 
to  the  greatness  of  the  love,  is  the  greatness  of 
the  loss.  If  an  exalted  happiness  was  found  by 
us  in  our  communions  with  one  person, — that 
person  having  a  pre-eminence  to  us  above  all 
others  upon  earth, — then  the  misery  is  great  to 
that  extent.  The  purest  affection  has  been  tram- 
pled upon.  The  heart  is  sick.  In  solitary  an- 
guish the  spirit  passes  away  its  hours.  There 
is  nothing  but  a  dark  monotony  of  grief.  The 
day  is  lost  in  night.  The  future  was  once 
viewed  as  full  of  joy  :  now  it  is  nothing  but 
one  great  wilderness  of  death.  The  chief  dis- 
appointment to  sensitive  beings  upon  earth  has 
been  experienced.  The  foundation  has  given 
way  ;  the  building  has  fallen  ;  the  sole  inhabi- 
tant sits  brooding  amid  the  ruins.  Reason  not 
unfrequently  leaves  her  throne,  and  the  spirit 
wanders  wildly  through  Hfe. 

"Take  one  example,  one  of  female  woe. 
Loved  by  a  father  and  a  mother's  love, 
In  rural  peace  she  lived,  so  fair,  so  light 
Of  heart,  so  good,  and  young,  that  reason  scarce 
The  eye  could  credit,  but  would  doubt,  as  she 
Did  stoop  to  pull  the  lily  or  the  rose 
From  morning's  dew,  if  it  reality 
Of  flesh  and  blood,  or  holy  vision,  saw. 


98  Sorrow. 

In  imagery  of  perfect  womanhood. 

But  short  her  bloom,  her  happiness  was  short. 

One  saw  her  loveliness,  and,  with  desire 

Unhallowed,  burning,  to  her  ear  addressed 

Dishonored  words     ****** 

Upon  a  hoary  cliff*,  that  watched  the  sea. 

Her  babe  was  found — dead.     On  its  httle  cheel^ 

The  tear  that  nature  bade  it  weep,  had  turned 

An  ice-drop,  sparkling  in  the  morning  beam  ; 

And  to  the  turf  its  helpless  hands  were  frozen. 

For  she,  the  woeful  mother,  had  gone  mad. 

And  laid  it  down,  regardless  of  its  fate 

And  of  her  own.     Yet  had  she  many  days 

Of  sorrow  in  the  world,  but  never  wept. 

She  lived  on  alms,  and  carried  in  her  hand 

Some  withered  stalks  she  gathered  in  the  spring. 

When  any  asked  the  cause,  she  smiled  and  said, 

They  were  her  sisters,  and  would  come  and  watch 

Her  grave  when  she  was  dead.     She  never  spoke 

Of  her  deceiver,  father,  mother,  home, 

Or  child,  or  heaven,  or  hell,  or  God,  but  still 

In  lonely  places  walked,  and  ever  gazed 

Upon  the  withered  stalks,  and  talked  to  them  ; 

Till  wasted  to  the  shadow  of  her  youth. 

With  woe  too  wide  to  see  beyond,  she  died."* 

Certainly  there  is  such  a  thing  as  a  hrohen 
lieart.  The  speech  may  not  always  reveal  it. 
The  common  actions  of  life  may  not  make  it 
known.     The  manner  may  even  cover  it  over 

*  Pollock's  Course  of  Time,  book  viii. 


The  Sorrow  of  Loye.  99 

as  a  garment  the  wounded  body.  In  silence 
and  secrecy  the  evil  is  simply  eating  its  way 
through  the  bleeding  heart, — death  is  at  the 
fountain.  The  pale  face  may  show  to  a  care- 
ful observer  the  fearful  power  of  mind  over 
matter.  It  is  wonderful  how  mental  pain  will 
burn  through  the  very  tenement  of  the  soul, 
and  finally  consume  it  to  ashes !  It  is  amaz- 
ingly sad  to  think  that  there  are  creatures 
among  us  who  are  pining  away  in  the  midst  of 
a  hidden  grief.  They  may  not  murmur.  In 
quietness  and  sweet  affection  they  may  attend 
to  the  duties  of  their  station.  They  may  smile 
even  as  smiles  the  martyr  on  his  way  to  the 
stake.  Still,  in  the  soul,  there  is  a  sad  memory 
because  of  a  friend  that  is  gone  !  a  broken 
heart  because  that  friend  will  come  back  no 
more  !  On  the  part  of  the  loved  one  there  may 
have  been  no  desertion  ;  no  ill  usage  of  any 
kind  :  only  this, — he  died  ;  died  it  may  be  on 
the  very  eve  of  marriage. 

"  Robert  Emmet,  who  was  executed  on  a 
charge  of  treason  in  Ireland  at  the  close  of  the 
last  century,  had  won  the  affections  of  a  beau- 
tiful and  interesting  girl,  the  daughter  of  a  cele- 
brated Irish  barrister.  She  loved  him  with 
the  disinterested  fervor  of  a  woman's  first  and 


lOO  SOKROW. 

early  love.  When  every  worldly  maxim  ar- 
rayed itself  against  liim  ;  when  blasted  in  for- 
tune, and  disgrace  and  danger  darkened  around 
his  name,  she  loved  him  the  more  ardently  for 
his  sufferings."  "  The  most  delicate  aal  cher- 
ishing attentions  were  paid  her  by  families  of 
wealth  and  distinction.  She  was  led  into  soci- 
ety, and  they  tried  by  all  kinds  of  occupation 
and  amusement  to  dissipate  her  grief,  and  wean 
her  from  the  tragical  story  of  her  loves.  But 
it  was  aU  in  vain.  There  are  some  strokes  of 
calamity  that  scathe  and  scorch  the  soul — that 
penetrate  to  the  vital  seat  of  happiness — and 
blast  it,  never  again  to  put  forth  bud  or  blos- 
som. She  never  objected  to  frequent  the 
haunts  of  pleasure,  but  she  was  as  much  alone 
there  as  in  the  depths  of  solitude.  She  walked 
about  in  a  sad  reverie,  apparently  unconscious 
of  the  world  around  her. 

**  The  person  who  told  me  her  story  had  seen 
her  at  a  masquerade.  There  can  be  no  exhibi- 
tion of  far-gone  wretchedness  more  striking  and 
painful  than  to  meet  it  in  such  a  scene.  To 
find  it  wanderhig  like  a  spectre,  lonely  and  joy- 
less, where  all  around  is  gay — to  see  it  dressed  ^ 
out  in  the  trappings  of  mirth,  and  looking  so 
wan  and  woe- begone,  as  if  it  had  tried  in  vain 


The  Sorrow  of  Love.  101 

to  cheat  the  poor  heart  into  a  momentary  for- 
getfuhiess  of  sorrow.  After  strolling  through 
the  splendid  rooms  and  giddy  crowd  with  an 
air  of  utter  abstraction,  she  sat  herself  down  on 
the  steps  of  an  orchestra,  and  looking  about  for 
some  time  with  a  vacant  air,  that  showed  her 
insensbility  to  the  garish  scene,  she  began,  with 
the  capriciousness  of  a  sickly  heart,  to  warble 
a  little  plaintive  air.  She  had  an  exquisite 
voice  ;  but  on  this  occasion  it  was  so  simple,  so 
touching,  it  breathed  forth  such  a  soul  of 
wretchedness,  that  she  drew  a  crowd  mute  and 
silent  around  her,  and  melted  every  one  into 
tears."  "  Nothing  could  cure  the  silent  and 
devouring  melancholy  that  had  entered  into 
her  very  soul.  She  wasted  away  in  a  slow,  but 
hopeless  decline,  and  at  last  sunk  into  the 
grave,  the  victim  of  a  broken  heart."  * 

*  Washington  Irving,  The  Sketch  Book,  p.  92. 


CHAPTER  YII. 

TEE  INVENTIVE  POWER    OF  SYMPATHETIC 
SOllROW. 

LET  sympathetic  sorrow  be  understood  in 
its  most  extended  sense.  Whether  this 
complex  feeUng  works  simply  among  the  desires 
and  thoughts  of  our  inward  being,  or  goes  out 
to  suffering  and  sorrowful  men,  it  makes  no 
great  difference  as  far  as  the  identity  of  the 
feeling  is  concerned.  The  harp  that  is  tuned 
to  a  single  listening  ear  in  the  solitude  of  a 
chamber,  is  the  same  harp  that  cheers  the 
thousands  of  a  great  assembly.  All  sympathy 
has  in  it  an  element  of  sadness  ;  and  I  had 
almost  said  that  all  sadness  has  in  it  an  element 
of  sympathy.  There  is  a  warmth  of  sorrow  as 
well  as  a  warmth  of  sympathy,  and  the  one 
naturally  attracts  the  other.     Who  can   even 


The  Inyentiye  Power  of  Sorrow.        103 

feel  without  at  the  same  time  awaking  emotions 
of  sadness  and  sympathy  ?  The  thought  and 
the  feeling,  which  move  and  master  souls,  have 
a  tendency  to  create  and  adopt  many  states  of 
mind.  In  regard  to  sympathetic  sorrow,  we 
may  say  that  when  it  is  pure  and  strong  it  will 
have  more  of  inventiveness  than  when  it  is  im- 
pure and  weak.  Invention  of  any  kind  de- 
mands life.  The  poet  and  the  orator  invent 
when  they  are  in  the  midst  of  emotion. 

Perhaps  the  first  lighthouse  that  was  ever 
built  resulted  from  a  movement  of  pity.  There 
is  no  telling  how  much  the  perfection  of  our 
charts  has  sprung  from  the  same  feeling.  Even 
certain  improvements  in  ship-building  may  be 
traced  back  to  a  thoughtful  sympathy.  The 
first  idea  of  a  life-boat  and  a  life-preserver  majT- 
have  been  the  creation  of  a  kind  heart.  Then 
what  a  world  of  invention  we  find  in  connec- 
tion with  our  modern  philanthropy.  Its  yqyj 
commonness  has  caused  men  to  lose  sight  of  it. 
Here  are  hospitals  for  the  sick,  asylums  for  the 
insane,  homes  for  the  poor,  reformatory  estab- 
lishments for  the  fallen.  Even  the  idiotic  are 
trained  in  schools.  The  blind  are  so  educated, 
we  imagine  almost  that  they  must  be  able  to 
see,  and  the  deaf  that  they  must  hear,  and  the 


104:  SOKROW. 

dumb  that  they  must  speak.  The  vision  of 
Howard  also  seems  to  rest  over  every  prison, — 
himself  the  very  embodiment  of  sympathetic 
invention.  Then  the  fine  idea  of  a  temperance 
pledge  :  this  saving  millions  of  men.  The  ex- 
tended moral  machinery  also  that  has  been  set 
in  motion  for  the  benefit  of  great  armies.  In- 
deed, simply  to  name  the  living  facts  of  philan- 
thropy is  out  of  the  question. 

In  the  sphere  of  Christian  life  the  inventive 
characteristic  comes  out  with  great  distinctness. 
In  this  sphere  a  new  element  is  added  to  the 
sympathetic  sorrow, — the  element  of  holiness. 
It  thus  has  greater  power  and  greater  value. 
It  strikes  out  upon  a  new  path.  Souls  that  are 
lost  it  cares  for.  How  many  different  methods 
are  adopted  in  order  to  impress  meij  ;  in  order 
to  lead  them  to  commence  the  new  life  ;  in 
order  to  keep  them  from  wanderii  g  from  the 
way  when  once  they  have  entered  it !  If  we 
could  see  the  thoughts  and  plans  of  all  the  faith- 
ful, we  should  behold  a  fine  specimen  of  inventive 
love.  Simply  lookuig  at  successful  ministers  of 
the  Gospel,  their  inventiveness  is  a  study  by 
itself  What  an  amount  of  ingenuity  is  dis- 
played in  the  selection  of  texts  ;  those  texts 
which  will  arrest  the  attention  and  sound  the 


The  Inventive  Powek  oe  Sokkow.        105 

soul.  Then  the  skill  manifested  in  the  prepar- 
ation of  sermons.  The  choice  of  so  many 
different  themes,  unfolded  in  so  many  different 
ways,  all  for  the  purpose  of  preparing  men  for 
eternity.  Defeat  also  sharpening  the  inven- 
tive faculty.  A  new  stand-point  taken,  and  a 
new  train  of  thinking  adopted.  A  mere  pause, 
the  use  of  a  certain  phrase  or  illustration, 
the  emphasis  put  upon  a  certain  word,  the 
very  tone  of  the  voice  and  look  of  the  eye, 
may  all  be  so  many  inventions  of  an  exalted 
sympathy.  Ah,  as  expressing  pity,  had  a  new 
power  in  the  preaching  of  Whitfield.  The 
Christian  nature  itself  seems  to  act  sometimes 
by  a  law  of  necessity  ;  starting  new  move- 
ments apart  from  any  act  of  will.  Sympathy, 
as  if  it  were  a  soul,  can  write  anxiety  upon  the 
face,  can  send  a  tear  to  the  eye,  can  make  the 
body  to  bend  forward, — making  the  whole 
outer  man  even  to  be  the  image  of  the  pt^ssion 
within. 

When  we  really  enter  upon  the  work  of  sav- 
ing souls,  is  not  a  feehng  of  sorrow  one  of  the 
moving  powers  ?  It  certainly  is.  It  is  the 
sorrow  which  shows  that  we  are  truly  affected 
by  the  fallen  condition  of  men.  If  sorrow  be 
not  found  at  the   beginning   of  efforts  which 


106  Sorrow. 

look  to  the  salvation  of  men,  there  is  a  marked 
deficiency,  a  want  of  fitness.  Reason  de- 
mands that  I  have  a  feeling  whicli  is  suited  to 
the  exact  state  of  man.  Sin  and  sorrow  are 
correlates.  Suppose  we  could  see  a  race  of 
beings  sinning  for  the  first  time, — what  would 
be  the  first  feeling?  The  first  feeling  would  be 
grief.  When  we  thus  are  grieved,  we  seem  to 
take  the  sinner's  place.  The  tears  that  we  shed, 
he  ought  to  shed.  We  almost  repent  for  him. 
Pure  sympathetic  sorrow  is  a  kind  of  prophecy 
of  the  new  life  j  the  new  life  is  seen  there  in 
miniature. 

Organized  efforts  to  Christianize  men,  show 
the  inventive  element  of  sympathetic  sorrow. 
Think  of  the  foreign  missionary  movement.. 
The  very  thought  is  instinct  with  the  deepest 
sympathy.  It  bears  a  resemblance  to  the  re- 
demptive compassion  of  the  Son  of  God.  What 
an  array  of  inventions  have  sprung  forth  from 
the  one  scheme  of  missions !  It  is  only  suffi- 
cient for  one  to  think  the  matter  over  with 
carefulness,  in  order  to  see  them.  There  is  also 
the  Sabbath-School  enterprise, — a  wonderful 
system  of  effort.  The  idea  was  the  fruit  of 
pity  J  and  pity  keeps  it  ever  fresh  and  beauti- 
ful.     Sabbath- School   libraries   and  papers — 


The  Inventive  Power  of  Sorrow.        107 

two  fine  iiiventLons — have  grown  out  of  this 
benevolent  movement.  Take  the  thought  also 
of  a  Tract  Society.  A  certain  pious  woman 
was  saddened  as  she  beheld  the  infidelity  of 
France.  Sympathetic  sorrow  moved  her  to 
write  a  tract.  The  British  Tract  Society  grew 
out  of  that.  Then  we  have  the  exalted  con- 
ception of  a  Bible  Society.  Nothing  seems  so 
appropriate  for  love  as  to  multiply  copies  ot 
the  very  book  which  generated  the  love.  Who 
can  tell  now  the  inventions  that  have  sprung 
from  the  Bible  ? — itself  the  great  invention. 
We  may  not  specify  any  further  the  various 
organizations.  Only  we  are  greatly  struck 
with  the  thought  of  a  Daily  Prayer-Meeting, 
and  with  that  singular  .  movement  of  George 
Muller,  of  Bristol,  England,  carried  forward 
by  the  simple  power  of  faith, — money  coming 
in  from  all  directions,  yet  no  one  asked  to  give. 
Surely  there  is  a  God  in  heaven,  and  Love  is 
his  child. 

The  cross  in  the  heart  has  an  inventive  power. 
"  What  was  it  that  led  to  the  establishment  of 
the  hundreds  of  monasteries,  convents,  and  sim- 
ilar institutions,  which,  whatever  they  may  have 
been  in  the  days  of  their  degeneracy,  were 
founded  by  men  of  the  purest  zeal  for  their 


108  Sorrow. 

own  and  others'  welfare,  and  were  for  genera- 
tions a  source  of  refining,  elevating,  and  civil- 
izing influences  to  the  districts  around  them  ? 
It  was  the  cross.  What  was  it  that  drove  hun- 
dreds of  the  best  men  of  their  respective  gen- 
erations from  their  native  lands  to  traverse 
pathless  wilds,  and  seek  out  unknown  and  bar- 
barous tribes  for  the  purpose  of  saving  them 
from  temporal  and  eternal  ruin  ?  It  was  the 
cross  in  their  hearts,  w^hose  image  they  often 
bore  in  their  hands.  What  gave  the  signal  for 
the  movement  of  those  immense  masses  of  men 
of  all  classes  and  ages  from  aU  parts  of  Europe 
on  Jerusalem  durhig  the  eleventh,  twelfth,  and 
thirteenth  centuries — to  the  crusades,  which, 
however  else  we  may  judge  of  them,  must  be 
confessed  to  have  been  rooted  in  an  enthusiasm 
such  as  the  world  had  never  before  witnessed  ? 
It  was  the  cross.  What  was  it  that  inspu-ed 
Italian  art,  at  the  noblest  period  of  its  existence, 
with  its  grandest  thoughts  and  colors  and 
forms  ?  Was  it  not  the  cross  ?  In  whose 
honor  were  raised  the  finest  monuments  of  the 
most  spiritual  style  of  architecture  that  human 
genius  has  conceived  ?  Surely  the  cross,  which 
they  exhibit  in  their  form — the  cross  that 
towers  aloft  on  their  summits  1" 


The  Inventive  Power  of  Sorrow.        109 

We  may  simply  glance  at  the  inventiveness 
of  the  God-man  ;  a  person  whose  compassion 
was  bathed  in  sorrow.  His  miracles  were  in- 
ventions of  love,  as  well  as  manifestations  of 
power.  How  unusual  that  he  should  mingle 
so  much  with  the  poor  and  with  the  vilest  of 
the  people !  How  his  feeling  and  truthful 
heart  led  him  to  rebuke  the  Pharisees  ;  telling, 
them  that  they  were  hypocrites,  blind  guides, 
devourers  of  the  houses  of  widows.  His  power 
of  rebuke  makes  one  to  tremble.  No  one  has 
appeared  who  could  speak  with  such  boldness. 
Then  the  fact  that,  although  the  Saviour  was 
Mercy  itself,  he  yet  unfolds  the  horrors  of  hell 
with  such  fullness  as  not  to  be  equalled  by  a 
single  Biblical  writer,  and  states  the  eternity  of 
punishment  with  such  clearness  and  honesty  as 
must  puzzle  those  who  are  wont  to  descant  on 
the  omnipotency  of  Love.  The  thought,  too, 
that  he  did  not  keep  in  the  background  the 
difficulties  that  were  connected  with  the  Chris- 
tian hfe,  but  took  special  pains  to  press  them 
into  notice  ;  and  that  instead  of  being  anxious 
to  gain  numbers,  he  frequently  announced 
some  startling  truth  which  thinned  the  ranks  of 
his  disciples  with  great  quickness.  Also  the 
strange  command  to  gather  up  the  fragments, 


110  SOBKOW. 

when  the  original  amount  of  food  was  itself  so 
small !  Then  his  inventiveness  as  seen  in  his 
silence,  when  other  men  would  have  spoken  ; 
his  doing  nothing,  when  other  men  would  have 
done  something.  We  may  call  the  Saviour  a 
being  of  negative  inventions.  He  had  a  great 
unseen  life  that  was  wholly  original.  How 
strange  that  he  wrote  no  part  of  the  New  Tes- 
tament !  that  he  baptized  not  a  single  person 
himself!  that  he  left  not  a  single  word  which 
might  enable  us  to  form  an  idea  respecting  his 
outward  appearance !  What  a  singular  con- 
ception was  that  of  dying  for  a  world !  His 
sympathetic  sorrow  began  and  completed  re- 
demption. An  agony  of  love  saves  millions. 
The  tender  thought  which  he  had  of  ransoming 
the  thief  on  the  cross  :  so  that  we  are  able  to 
say  of  one  man  that  he  repented  and  went  to 
heaven  on  the  same  day.  Then  at  the  last  the 
exceeding  beauty  of  the  picture  that,  while  in 
the  act  of  blessing  his  disciples,  "he  was  parted 
from  them,  and  carried  up  into  heaven." 

Emotion  that  invents,  is  emotion  that  multi- 
plies power.  There  is  enlargement  in  every 
direction.  Things  are  seen,  which  were  not 
seen  when  the  feelings  were  monotonous.  The 
man  whose  heart  is  inventive  will  have  a  range 


The  Inyentiye  Power  of  Sorrow.        Ill 

of  being  double  that  of  his  tame  companion. 
The  one  seems  to  have  two  souls  and  two  pro- 
bations, while  the  other  has  nothing  but  single- 
ness. The  day  of  the  inventive  ts  tw^o  days, 
his  week  two  weeks,  his  year  two  years,  his 
hfe  two  lives.  He  is  characterized  also  by 
moral  sagacity,  holy  wisdom,  a  fine  sense  of 
fitness, — states  which  the  prosaic  good  man 
only  dreams  of  With  such  a  soul,  opportuni- 
ties are  found  ;  opportunities  are  created. 
Gold  is  seen  where  others  only  see  rubbish. 
The  higher  emotions  sharpen  the  intellect ;  a 
kind  of  sanctified  perceptiveness  is  developed. 
There  are  men  whose  mental  nature  sleeps  for 
years.  By  and  by  the  heart  begins  to  beat. 
The  moment  of  awakening  has  come.  Now 
they  are  powers.  An  extended  consciousness, 
especially  an  extended  moral  consciousness,  is 
the  result  of  tearful  emotions.  We  speak 
of  genius  as  partaking  somewhat  of  the  intui- 
tive. There  is  a  quick  seizing  of  particulars  j 
a  reaching  conclusions  with  great  rapidity. 
Let  one  have  sympathic  sorrow  that  is  Christ- 
like, and  he  will  have  genius  in  the  spiritual 
realm. 

The  inventive  characteristic  comes  out  quite 
distinctly  in  connection  with  the  fact  of  death. 


112  SOEROW. 

I  once  saw  a  woman  who  had  lost  her  husband, 
take  three  handfuls  of  earth  and  drop  the  same 
gently  down  upon  his  coffin  as  she  stood  at  his 
grave.     The%ct  was  new  to  all,  and  it  affected 
all.     It  seemed  to  be  the  invention  of  sympa- 
thetic sorrow.     The  embalming  of  the   dead  ; 
the  reversing  of  arms   at  a  soldier's  funeral ; 
drinking  a  toast  in  silence  as  a  token  of  respect 
for  the  dead  ;  having  a  coffin  made  with  a  lock 
and    key  ;    having    a  cemetery   in   a   retired 
place,  and  beautified  by  art ;   the  wearing  of 
black  clothes  as  a  symbol  of  grief ;  the  custom 
among  the  ancient  Romans  of  calling  out  the 
name  of  the  person  who  had  died,  with  a  loud 
voice,  to  see  whether  he  was  really  dead,  and 
then  having  the  nearest  friend  to  give  the  last 
kiss, — all   these    are    tender    inventions.     To 
place  flowers  in  a  coffin  or  upon  it  are  of  the 
same  character.     Flowers  are  incarnations  of 
love  !  and  when  planted  round  a  grave,  they 
seem  almost  to  be  living  beings  who  have  come 
to  perfume  the  body  of  the  dead  :  having  done 
which,  they  die.     On  the  tombstones  of  Roman 
women  we  find  the  epitaph — ■' '  She  that  had  one 
hushandP     To  be  married  but  once,  and  thus  to 
be  married  forever,  is  a  thought  which  we  do 
not  think  of  sufficiently.     In  the  Catacombs  we 


The  Inventive  Power  of  Sorrow.        113 

meet  with  the  simple  inscriptions — '^  In peace^^ 
— '*  He  sleeps  in  peace ^  Tiiomas  Fuller  says  : 
''  Tombs  are  the  clothes  of  the  dead.  A  grave 
is  but  a  plain  suit,  and  a  rich  monument  is  one 
embroidered."  The  various  forms  of  epitaphs, 
wherever  found,  may  be  looked  upon  as  inven- 
tions of  sympathetic  grief.  That  sorrow,  which 
is  the  memory  of  the  heart,  wrote  them.  In 
the  Old  Testament,  quite  an  inventive  incident 
is  stated.  Five  men  had  been  hung.  The 
mother  of  two  of  them  went  to  guard  their 
bodies.  "  She  took  sackcloth  and  spread  it  for 
her  upon  the  rock,  from  the  beginning  of  har- 
vest until  the  water  dropped  upon  them  out  of 
heaven,  and  suffered  neither  the  birds  of  the 
air  to  rest  on  them  by  day,  nor  the  beasts  of 
the  field  by  night."  Surely  the  heart  which 
prompted  to  such  action  was  sick  and  bleeding. 
The  idiot  son  who  lingered  at  the  grave  of  his 
mother  after  all  the  mourners  had  left  ;  who 
dug  away  the  earth  and  lifted  out  the  coffin  ; 
carried  that  home  in  the  darkness  ;  made  a  fire, 
and  set  his  dead  mother  upright  on  a  chair  that 
she  might  warm  herself, — the  one  who  acted 
thus  had  an  inventive  heart.  The  poor  thing 
knew  nothing  of  death,  but  he  knew  something 
of  love.     Even  the  worship    of  relics  and   of 


114  SOEROW. 

saints  may  have  sprung  originally  from  sym- 
pathetic sorrow.  The  superstitious  realm  has 
been  filled  with  fancies  from  a  sick  heart.  New 
sins,  as  well  as  new  kindnesses,  may  be  the 
children  of  tears. 

Deep  sympathetic  sadness  will  sometimes 
originate  dreams  which  seem  almost  to  be  pro- 
phetic. "A  young  lady,  a  native  of  Ross-shire, 
Scotland,  was  deeply  in  love  with  an  officer 
who  accompanied  Sir  John  Moore  in  the  penin- 
sular war.  The  constant  danger  to  which  he 
was  exposed  had  an  evident  effect  upon  her 
spirits.  She  became  pale  and  melancholy  in 
perpetually  brooding  over  his  fortunes ;  and, 
in  spite  of  all  that  reason  could  do,  felt  a 
certain  conviction,  that  when  she  last  part- 
ed with  her  lover,  she  had  parted  with  him 
forever.  In  a  surprisingly  short  period,  her 
graceful  form  dechned  into  all  the  appall- 
ing characteristics  of  a  fatal  illness  ;  and  she 
seemed  rapidly  hastening  to  the  grave,  when 
a  dream  confirmed  the  horrors  she  had 
long  anticipated,  and  gave  the  finishing  stroke 
to  her  sorrows.  One  night,  after  falling  asleep, 
she  imagined  she  saw  her  lover,  pale,  bloody, 
and  wounded  in  the  breast,  enter  her  apart- 
ment.    He  drew  aside  the  curtains  of  the  bed, 


The  Inventive  Power  of  Sorrow.        115 

and,  with  a  look  of  utmost  mildness,  informed 
her  that  he  had  been  slain  in  battle,  desiring 
her,  at  the  same  time,  to  comfort  herself, 
and  not  take  his  death  too  seriously  to  heart. 
It  is  needless  to  say  what  influence  the  vision 
had  upon  a  mind  so  replete  with  woe.  It 
withered  it  entirely,  and  the  unfortunate  girl 
died  a  few  days  thereafter;  but  not  without  de- 
siring her  parents  to  note  down  the  day  of  the 
month  on  which  it  happened,  and  see  if  it 
would  be  confirmed,  as  she  confidently  declared 
it  would.  Her  anticipation  was  correct,  for 
accounts  were  shortly  after  received  that  the 
young  man  was  slain  at  the  battle  of  Corunna, 
which  was  fought  on  the  very  day,  on  the 
night  of  which  his  mistress  had  beheld  the 
vision."  * 

Sympathetic  sorrow,  viewed  as  inventing 
various  forms  and  figures  of  speech  is  really 
quite  suggestive.  A  parent  will  say,  ''I  lost  a 
child,''  instead  of  saying,  my  child  died.  In 
the  sadness  of  our  hearts  we  speak  of  man  as 
2i  flower  that  fades,  as  a  c/oi^c?  that  passes  away, 
as  a  stranger  that  tarries  but  for  a  night.  Life 
we  call  a  shadow  and  death  a  river.     We  speak 

*Dr.  Macuish,  Philosopliy  of  Sleep,  chap.  iv. 


116  Sorjiow. 

of  tke  dead  as  sleeping  in  the  grave  ;  sleeping 
so  soundly  that  they  hear  not  the  voices  of 
children  or  men.  Heaven  is  to  us  a  haven  of 
peace,  because  now  we  are  sailing  upon  a 
stormy  sea.  Some  of  the  names  which  have 
been  given  to  places  in  the  polar  regions  are 
but  echoes  of  lonely  minds  ;  exclamations  of 
men  who  are  depressed  by  long  darkness  and 
cold.  Take  these  :  Cape  Welcome,  Providence 
Halt,  Refuge  Inlet,  Point  Security,  Weary 
Man's  Rest.  Many  names  of  persons  are  in- 
ventions of  sad  hearts.  The  second  son  of 
Adam  was  called  Abel, — meaning  a  breath, 
vanity.  How  well  that  pointed  to  his  short  life. 
Like  a  sigh  it  must  have  seemed  to  Adam  and 
Eve.  The  name  that  was  given  to  the  grand- 
son of  Eli  is  very  significant.  At  the  moment 
of  his  birth,  his  mother  called  him  Ichabod, — • 
meaning  the  glory  is  departed.  Her  father-in- 
law  had  fallen  down  dead,  her  husband  had 
been  slain  in  battle,  the  ark  of  God  was  taken, 
she  herself  was  dying  ;  so  Ichabod  was  a  name 
which  had  wrapped  up  in  it  a  sad  history.  Even 
in  the  very  artificial  language  of  Skaldic  poetry, 
in  which  nothing  was  to  be  called  by  its  own 
proper  name,  there  might  be  found  many  in- 
ventions of  sympathy.     "  Blood  was  not  to  be 


The  Inventive  Power  of  Somiow.        117 

called  blood,  but  the  dew  of  pain,  or  tlie  water 
of  the  sword.  A  warrior  v/as  not  spoken  of 
as  a  warrior,  but  as  an  armed  tree,  the  tree 
of  battle.  A  sword  was  the  flame  of  wounds."* 
The  figures  of  speech  which  are  found  in  the 
following  lines  of  Cowper  are  evidently  crea- 
tions of  a  heart  that  was  sad  : 

"  I  was  a  stricken  deer,  that  left  the  herd 
Long  since  ;  with  many  an  arrow  deep  infixed 
My  panting  side  was  charged,  when  I  withdrew 
To  seek  a  tranquil  death  in  distant  shades.'* 

Apart  from  mere  style,  there  is  a  great  deal 
of  literature  which  is  the  fruit  of  sympathetic 
sorrow.  There  are  poetical  compositions  of 
the  finest  stamp  which  can  be  traced  to  a  bleed- 
ing heart.  Take  Dante's  "Divine  Comedy," 
Gray's  "Elegy,"  and  Tennyson's  "In  Memo- 
riam,"  as  instances.  Songs  relating  to  love  and 
freedom,  hymns  occasioned  by  the  sufferings 
and  death  of  men,  the  few  verses  that  were 
written  with  tears,  point  to  the  sympathetic 
nature.  Some  of  our  higher  works  of  fiction 
are  but  the^  outpourings  of  personal  grief, — 
figures  of  men  in  battle  array  in  the  clouds, 

*  Muller's  Science  of  Language,  p.  194 


118  Sorrow. 

reflected  from  the  earth.  There  are  writers 
who  have  failed  to  impress,  just  because  a  true 
loving  sorrow  had  no  prompting  and  fashioning 
power  in  their  souls.  Then,  again,  there  are 
books  which  are  strictly  intellectual,  yet  contain- 
ing sentences  of  the  deepest  pathos.  It  is  pos- 
sible even  for  a  treatise  which  turns  out  to  be 
exceedingly  dry,  to  have  had  it.s  origin  in  the 
moving  sympathies  of  the  soul,  just  as  many 
a  scorching  day  has  come  forth  from  a  dark 
rainy  night.  A  physician  may  have  a  great 
deal  of  feeling,  as  he  thinks  in  regard  to  a  can- 
cer which  he  is  about  to  remove  ;  yet  in  the  act 
of  removing  that  cancer  he  may  show  no  feel- 
ing at  all :  concentrating  his  attention  upon  the 
one  business  before  him,  he  forgets  all  emotion. 
I  am  not  aware  that  Butler's  "  Analogy  "  is  in 
any  respect  a  pathetic  book  ;  yet  a  feeling  of 
sadness,  occasioned  by  the  prevailing  infidelity, 
may  have  led  to  its  composition.  There  are 
many  works  on  the  Christian  evidences,  strictly 
argumentative,  which  show  painful  and  pro- 
found concern  for  the  higher  interests  of  men. 
That  one  sentence  of  John  Howe — ''Here 
Grod  once  dwelt " — is  the  echo  of  deep  feeling. 
Indeed,  the  **  Living  Temple,"  taken  as  a  whole, 
was  wrought   out   by  what  might  be   called 


The  Inventive  Power  of  Sorrow.        119 

thouglitfal  sympathy.  In  the  sphere  of  practi- 
cal piety,  we  have  fine  treatises  which  have 
been  moulded  by  the  heart.  Banyan's  Alle- 
gory was  not  merely  the  offspring  of  genius. 
Christian  feeling,  a  very  painful  experience  in 
connection  with  sin,  a  deep  knowledge  x)f  hu- 
man nature  and  divine  revelation,  had  much  to 
do  with  its  composition.  As  that  wonderful 
tree  wJiich  bears  twelve  manner  of  fruits  is 
planted  by  the  river  of  life,  so  beside  the  foun- 
tain of  love  and  sadness  there  spring  up 
thoughts  of  great  wealth  and  originality. 


CHAPTER  YIII. 

THE  MISERY  OF  MAN  AS  DEEPENING  HIS  SORROW. 

RAIN  that  descends  during  a  cold  gloomy 
day  is  more  disagreeable  than  when  tne 
sky  is  clear  and  the  air  pleasant.  When  misery 
inflames  the  soul,  tears  are  scalding.  Although 
sorrow  is  painful,  yet  all  pain  is  not  sorrow. 
We  therefore  present  a  statement  of  human 
ULihappiness,  that  each  one  may  see  how  win- 
try grief  is  made  by  its  presence. 

There  is  the  feeling  of  discontent.  No  man 
is  satisfied.  There  may  be  a  general  content- 
ment with  reference  to  one's  outward  condi- 
tion ;  a  quiet  submission  to  God  and  pleasure 
i.i  his  government ;  but  yet  there  is  no  abso- 
lute contentment.  The  best  man  living  may  be 
convinced  of  the  truthfulness  of  this  statement 
by  watching  the  movements  of  his  mind  for 
a  single  day.     Sin  is  found  in  every  soul,  and 


The  Misery  of  Man.  121 

because  of  that,  men  chafe  and  are  dissatisfied. 
They  rush  towards  this  thing  and  that,  in  order 
to  cool  and  quiet  the  agonized  mind.  Scenes 
and  circumstances  are  imagined  as  pecuUarly 
favorable  to  happiness.  They  are  reached  ; 
they  are  tried  ;  they  are  found  waiting. 

There  is  that  burden  upon  the  heart  which  all 
feel.  The  rich  and  the  poor,  the  wise  and  the 
ignorant,  are  conscious  of  it.  To  think  of  a 
whole  race,  age  after  age,  passing  through  life 
under  the  sinking  weight  of  internal  misery, 
is  fearful.  What  cutting  irony  to  speak  of 
the  happiness  of  man.  Any  poetic  view  of 
life  is  worthless  when  placed  side  by  side  of  the 
awful  reality.  Millions  may  have  a  peace  that 
covers  the  surface  of  their  being  ;  they  may  be 
so  intently  occupied  as  not  to  think  of  the  soul ; 
they  may  be  exceedingly  conceited,  and  thus 
imagine  themselves  wiser  and  better  than  they 
are  :  but  beneath  all  this  there  is  the  burden 
upon  the  heart. 

Take  now  the  feeling  of  disappointed  ambi- 
tion. When  one  at  first  starts  on  the  path  of 
ambition  there  is  generally  a  glow  of  pleasant 
emotion.  Prospective  greatness  is  cheering. 
By  a  peculiar  working  of  the  mental  nature, 
the  good  that  is  wanted  seems  to  be  realized. 


122  Sorrow. 

This  deception  adds  to  the  pleasure.  But  by 
and  by  ambition  fails, — the  coveted  object  is 
not  secured.  A  storm  now  sets  in.  The  man 
is  restless.  He  seems  chained  to  a  rock  by 
bad  circumstances.  He  muses  upon  his  fate. 
This  only  adds  fuel  to  the  fire  of  misery.  Si- 
lent and  sullen  to  others,  he  complains  to  him- 
self. 

But  even  if  one  has  reached  the  height  to 
which  he  aspired  he  is  not  happy.  Exalted 
position  is  fraught  with  care,  and  the  strifes 
and  envies  connected  with  it  are  not  pleasant. 
Quite  frequently  the  higher  the  seat,  the  more 
intense  the  misery.  There  is  a  wish  to  be 
away  from  the  turmoil  and  excitement  that  are 
incident  to  power  and  position.  The  buffeted 
spirit  is, weary  of  the  world  ;  hence  retirement 
is  now  as  eagerly  longed  for  as  publicity  for- 
merly was  ;  yet  retirement  does  not  ease  tliQ 
troubled  mind.  The  thought  should  be  dis- 
tinctly apprehended  that  unhappiness  arises 
from  the  bad  state  of  the  soul,  and  that  no 
circumstances  can  expel  it.  "  Frequently, 
when  in  possession  of  everything  that  could 
make  life  pleasing,"  says  Rousseau,  *'I  have 
been  the  most  miserable  of  mortals."  Set  a 
fallen    soul   down   amid   the   perfect   circum- 


The  Misery  of  Man.  123 

stances  of  heaven,  and  even  there  it  would  be 
wretched. 

Pride  is  a  centre  of  misery.  It  starts  in  the 
soul  painful  reflections,  and  it  runs  in  the  line 
of  unhappy  feelings.  The  proud  man  is  sure 
to  have  enemies,  real  or  imaginary.  It  is  not 
possible  for  him  to  feel  easy.  He  is  full  of  ab- 
normal wants  ;  is  sensitive  ;  sour  in  his  heart, 
if  not  in  his  speech  ;  is  quite  discontented.  I 
have  sometimes  thought  that  if  a  man  could 
only  be  humble,  truly  humble,  he  would  have 
such  an  amount  of  peace  that,  in  popular  lan- 
guage, he  might  be  called  happy.  As  the  lof- 
tiest trees  have  the  deepest  roots,  so  the  greatest 
men  are  the  most  humble.  None  are»so  small 
as  the  proud.  ''  I  have  sometimes  dreamed 
that  from  time  to  time  hours  detached  them- 
selves from  the  life  of  the  angels,  and  came 
here  below  to  pass  through  the  destiny  of  man  f 
yet  such  hours  only  fret  and  tease  the  vain- 
glorious spirit.  An  incident  is  mentioned  by  a 
missionary  in  Africa,  showing  that  pride  will 
force  one  even  to  choose  death  rather  than  life. 
He  remarks  :  "  A  feast  had  been  proclaimed, 
cattle  had  been  slaughtered,  and  many  hearts 
beat  high  in  anticipation  of  wallowing  in  all 
the  excesses   of  savage  dehght.     Every  heart 


124:  Sorrow.      , 

appeared  elate  but  one.  He  was  a  man  of 
rank,  and  wore  on  his  head  the  usual  badge 
of  dignity.  He  was  brought  into  the  presence 
of  the  King  and  his  chief  council,  charged  with 
a  crime  for  which  it  was  in  vain  to  expect  par- 
don. He  bowed  his  fine  elastic  figure,  and 
kneeled  before  the  judge.  The  case  was  inves- 
tigated silently,  which  gave  solemnity  to  the 
scene.  Not  a  whisper  was  heard  among  the 
listening  audience.  The  prisoner's  eyes  indi- 
cated a  feeling  of  intense  interest,  which  the 
moving  balance  between  life  and  death  only 
could  produce.  The  charges  were  clearly  sub- 
stantiated, and  the  culprit  pleaded  guilty.  But, 
alas  !  he  knew  it  was  at  a  bar  where  none  ever 
heard  the  sound  of  pardon.  A  pause  ensued, 
during  which  the  silence  of  death  pervaded  the 
assembly.  At  length  the  monarch  spoke,  and, 
addressing  the  prisoner,  said,  'You  are  a  dead 
man  ;  but  I  shall  do  to-day  what  I  never  did 
before  ;  I  spare  your  life  for  the  sake  of  my 
friend  and  father  ' — pointing  to  the  spot  where 
the  missionary  stood.  '  He  has  pleaded  with 
me  not  to  go  to  war,  nor  destroy  life.  I  wish 
him,  when  he  returns  home  again,  to  return 
with  a  heart  as  white  as  he  has  made  mine. 
I  spare  you  for  his  sake.     But  you  must  be  de- 


The  Misery  of  Man.  125 

graded  for  life  ;  you  must  no  more  associate 
with  the  nobles  of  the  land,  nor  enter  the 
towns  of  the  princes  of  the  people  ;  nor  ever 
again  mingle  in  the  dance  of  the  mighty.  Go 
to  the  poor  of  the  field,  and  let  your  compan- 
ions be  the  inhabitants  of  the  desert.'  The 
sentence  passed,  the  pardoned  man  was  ex- 
pected to  bow  in  grateful  adoration.  But  no  ! 
holding  his  hands  clasped  on  his  bosom,  he 
replied,  '  0  King,  afflict  not  my  heart !  Let 
me  be  slain  like  the  warrior  ;  I  cannot  live 
with  the  poor  ;  how  can  I  live  among  the  dogs 
of  the  king  ?  No,  I  cannot  hve  !  Let  me  die, 
0  Pezoolu !'  His  request  was  granted.  He 
was  led  forth,  a  man  walking  on  each  side. 
My  eye  followed  him  till  he  reached  the  top 
of  a  precipice,  over  which  he  was  precipitated 
into  the  deep  pool  of  the  river  beneath,  where 
the  crocodiles  were  yawning  to  devour  him  ere 
he  could  reach  the  bottom.''  * 

The  fact  of  loss,  viewed  as  a  characteristic  of 
souls,  increases  misery.  Because  of  this  fact 
of  loss  man  is  ever  wanting  something.  The 
millions  of  strange  objects  that  are  fastened 
upon  during  a  lifetime,  only  show  the  raging 

*  Moffat's  Scenes  in  Southern  Africa,  p.  355. 


126  Sorrow. 

nature  of  the  soul's  hunger.  Men  want  labor 
and  ease,  variety  and  that  which  changes  not, 
sin  now  and  happiness  forever,  because  that 
which  is  suitable  for  the  whole  of  existence  has 
been  blindly  cast  away.  The  Divine  and  the 
holy  are  lost !  therefore  men  do  weary  to  find 
that  which  will  take  their  place,  and  fill  the 
void  that  has  been  created.  Stray  thoughts 
from  a  higher  realm  sweep  past  the  spirit  in  its 
want,  and  sighs  wander  forever  seeking  for 
that  which  is  gone.  As  the  shell  has  within  it 
the  sound  of  ocean  waves, — thus  pointing  to 
the  home  from  whence  it  came, — so  in  the  soul 
of  man  may  be  heard  whisperings  of  the  eter- 
nal sea — echoes  of  God.  Is  there  ^ot  a  feeling 
of  loss  in  many  a  mind  that  has  reasoned 
itself  into  the  behef  that  Christianity  is  false  ? 
Pleased  no  doubt  at  first  with  the  new  infidel- 
ity ;  rejoicing  that  all  restraints  are  now  taken 
away  ;  yet  after  a  season  of  quietness,  is  there 
not  a  certain  uneasy  sensation — a  feeling  that 
something  is  wanted  to  make  up  for  the  lost 
Christianity  ?  The  very  system  of  unbelief 
that  was  chosen  as  the  pacificator  of  the  soul, 
as  the  satisfier  of  its  want,  leaves  it  at  llie 
point  of  zero  with  nothing  to  help  and  notiiing 
to  fill.     Cut  off  from  all  that  is  supernal  u  nil  aud 


The  Misery  of  Man.  127 

saving,  there  cannot  but  be  a  feeling  of  loss, 
which,  though  pride  may  want  to  conceal,  is  yet 
tl'xcre  3j3  a  fact  of  the  sceptical  mind. 

The  soul  attempts  to  lessen  its  misery  by 
hope.  A  future  good  is  thought  of,  and  the 
mind  is  made  to  centre  itself  upon  that,  in 
order  that  it  may  forget  as  much  as  possible  its 
present  uiihappiness.  It  is  really  a  very 
curious  thing  that  in  the  majority  of  cases  the 
fallen  soul  has  no  present;  being  occupied 
either  about  those  things  that  are  past,  or 
about  those  that  are  to  come.  If  there  be  any 
thing,  however,  that  does  hold  man  to  a  present, 
it  is  sufifering.  Indeed,  by  way  of  pre-emi- 
nence, the  present  may  be  called  the  tense  of 
misery.  Because  of  this,  the  mind  hastens 
away  to  a  future  realm,  seeking  there  a  home 
which  it  finds  not  here.  Hope  never  has  such 
meaning  as  when  it  calls  forth  good  with  its 
golden  wings  to  ease  the  fevered  subject  of 
pain.  It  seems  like  a  ray  of  the  excellent 
glory  shining  upon  the  ruined  spirit  of  man. 
If  wo  had  no  sin  and  no  suffering,  I  doubt 
whether  hope  would  be  such  a  prominent  char- 
acteristic as  it  now  is.  The  pure  mind  has  a 
continually  blessed  present,  and  there  is  no 
need  to  long  for  a  happy  to-morrow.     Hope, 


128  Sorrow. 

in  a  vast  number  of  cases,  is  nothing  but  a 
golden  dream  ;  pleasing  only  while  the  dream 
continues.  Let  one  come  to  himself,  and  he  is 
miserable.  "  The  fires  which  illumine  our  night 
serve  but  as  a  signal  to  the  phantom  which 
haunts  us.  The  very  joy  awakens  in  the 
depths  of  the  soul  a  slumbering  grief.'' 

A  single  list  of  evils  which  torment  the  fal- 
len mind  may  here  be  presented.  There  is 
malice  with  its  darkness  and  venom.  Revenge 
with  its  blade  of  death.  Pride  and  envy  sour- 
ing the  spirit.  Impatience  worrjdng  the  soul, 
and  spite  poisoning  it.  The  fearful  fact  of 
bondage  also, — held  in  chains  by  a  sinful  nature. 
The  loss  of  manhood.  The  feeling  of  shame 
and  chagrin.  Square  truthfulness  not  exist- 
ing. Absolute  honesty  not  found.  The  want 
of  moral  courage.  Praise  ending  in  flattery, 
and  blame  in  anger.  A  feeling  that  all  this  is 
unworthy  of  a  soul  that  is  made  in  the  image 
of  God.  Sick  of  self,  and  somewhat  misan- 
thropic in  spirit.  Guilt  and  remorse  consuming 
the  soul.  The  conscious  war  of  discordant 
powers. 

The  misery  of  man  is  intensified  by  visioiis 
of  good.  Seeing  men  of  a  noble  spirit  hving 
a  grand  life,  torments  us.     The  brighter  they 


The  Miseky  of  Man.  129 

are,  tlie  darker  we  appear  to  be.  We  may  not 
be  spoken  to,  but  purity  speaks.  Gentleness, 
humility,  disinterested  love,  a  serene  submis- 
sion, arouse  the  unrenewed  mind  of  a  specta- 
tor, and  cause  it  to  pronounce  condemnation 
upon  self.  As  I  behold  patience,  I  think  of 
my  anger  ;  peace,  I  think  of  my  unrest  Th3 
very  child  that  quietly  lives  and  trusts  and  dies, 
brings  to  the  light  my  unfaithfulness,  and 
makes  me  bow  my  head  and  weep. 

There  are  hours  in  every  man's  life  which 
stand  out  as  hours  of  great  unhappiness.  Evil 
supplements  evil.  The  whole  soul  appears  to 
be  broken  in  pieces  ;  there  is  pain  all  over. 
The  spirit  is  faint  because  of  suffering  ;  it 
knows  not  what  to  do  ;  there  is  the  conscious- 
ness of  a  lost  balance,  and  a  tendency  to  des- 
pair. The  soul  is  like  a  stranded  ship  breaking 
up  by  the  tremendous  force  of  the  tempest; 
piece  by  piece  wrenched  off  and  swept  upon  the 
beach  ;  the  wind  howling  through  the  rigging, 
through  the  rent  sails,  playing  fearfully  about 
the  broken  masts  and  yard-arms  ;  the  watei 
pouring  in  at  one  side  of  the  vessel  only  to  be 
forced  out  at  the  other  by  reason  of  its  con- 
stant rolling.  Perhaps  also  the  shattered  soul 
is  hovering  over  the  abyss  of  insanity  about  to 


130  SOBROW. 

fall  in,  aud  dark  thoughts  of  self-destruction 
may  be  passing  through  the  mind.  When 
such  misery  occurs,  it  may  generally  be  looked 
upon  as  the  result  of  various  wrong  feelings 
mino-linoi:  too-ether.  Human  existence  would  be 
a  terror,  if  each  moment  of  it  were  to  be 
characterized  by  such  a  fearful  ministry  of  un- 
happiness.  It  is  only  therefore  once  in  a  while 
that  such  misery  is  felt.  When  the  painful 
moment  comes,  there  are  men  who  feel  as  if 
they  could  throw  themselves  down  upon  the 
floor  and  cry  out  in  their  agony.  The  book  of 
Psalms,  which  unfolds  a  great  many  character- 
istics of  human  nature,  gives  touches  of  an  ex- 
perience that  bears  some  resemblance  to  the 
kind  just  mentioned.  I  meet  with  such  state- 
ments as  these  :  *' I  am  as  a  man  that  hath 
no  strength."  **  My  soul  is  full  of  troubles." 
*'  Thou  hast  laid  me  in  the  lowest  pit,  in 
darkness,  in  the  deeps."  *'  The  sorrows  of 
death  compassed  me,  and  the  pains  of  hell 
gat  hold  upon  me  ;  I  found  trouble  and  sor- 
row." Such  language  is  painfully  expressive. 
Men  at  times  are  like  those  dead  trees  which 
are  seen  lying  in  the  midst  of  a  stream,  having 
perhaps  a  tuft  of  flowers  growing  out  of  their 
withered  trunk.     The  most  unhappy  have  yet 


The  Miseky  of  Man.  131 

some  bright  vestige   about   them,    even   if  it 
should  be  nothing  more  than  a  smile. 

Men  will  not  generally  reveal  the  full  contents 
of  their  misery.  They  consequently  appear 
happier  than  they  are.  The  laws  of  good  soci- 
ety also  demand  that  v/e  should  always  appear 
pleasant.  Hence  a  man  will  meet  you  with  a 
smile  at  the  very  time  he  is  suffering  intense 
pain  of  soul.  This  makes  it  evident  that  we 
can  not  judge  of  men  by  the  appearance.  The 
very  symptom  which  one  would  take  to  be 
expressive  of  joy,  may  need  to  be  interpreted 
as  a  sign  that  the  soul  is  in  a  state  of  turmoil ; 
and  the  very  labor  which  is  put  forth  to  appear 
happy,  may  only  show  the  bitterness  of  the 
grief  I  suppose  also  that  men  are  trying  to 
reach  the  ideal  of  their  happiness  in  appear- 
ance,  since  they  find  that  they  cannot  do  so  in 
reality.  The  appearance-hfe  of  mortals  is  very 
suggestive.  It  shows  that  they  were  made  for 
a  substantial  sphere,  and  have  failed  to  reach 
it ;  and  so  the  seeming  is  selected  because  it  has 
a  resemblance  to  that  which  is  real.  Even 
children  are  playing  the  man  each  day.  They 
mimic  the  showy  and  the  great.  Few  things 
are  so  common  as  apparent  good.  It  is  the 
key  that  opens  hearts,  and  shows  that  men  are 


132  SORKOW. 

weary  in  their  sin.  The  poor  maniac,  with 
a  straw  for  a  scepter  and  his  couch  for  a  throne, 
is  the  symbol  of  us  all. 

There  is  another  striking  fact  of  human  na- 
ture, namely  this,  that  the  soul  will  at  times 
hold  itself  to  its  jnisery.  No  pity  is  craved  ;  no 
effort  is  put  forth  to  obtain  relief.  There  is 
simply  a  dark  solitude,  as  if  the  stricken  spirit 
had  settled  down  in  a  desert,  that  there  it 
might  brood  and  suffer  amid  the  terrible  on- 
going of  a  disjointed  nature.  I  am  not  sure 
but  that  there  is  found  in  our  souls  a  punitive 
law  or  principle,  which  holds  us  with  a  kind 
of  iron  grasp  to  the  very  suffering  that  we  are 
enduring,  and  that  because  of  this  we  make 
no  attempt  to  escape.  Is  there  not  also  an  ac- 
quiescence of  soul  with  respect  to  the  suffer- 
ing ? — as  if  it  were  saying,  This  is  all  right,  it 
is  just  what  I  deserve.  It  is  difficult  to  ex- 
plain the  tendency  of  fallen  beings  to  hold 
themselves  down  to  their  misery,  unless  it  be 
by  this  punitive  drift  of  mind.  If  such  a  view 
is  correct,  it  helps  to  explain,  in  part,  the  back- 
wardness of  men  to  come  within  the  reach  of 
mercy.  Gruilt  will  not  yield  up  its  victim  : 
pardon  is  not  sought ;  there  is  simply  a  kind 
of  suffering  contentment.     There  are  souls  even 


The  Misery  of  Man.  133 

that  will  not  forgive  themselves  ;  justice  reigns 
alone  and  supreme.  Apart  from  unbeHef,  that 
state  of  mind  is  significant  which  makes  one  to 
say,  I  am  so  wicked  that  mercy  is  not  for  me  j 
then  sinking  into  the  arms  of  death  hopeless 
and  lost. 

Is  there  a  misery  so  great  that  it  cannot  he 
remembered  F  Coleridge  intimates  that  there  is. 
Note  the  following  language  : 

*    *    *  "  I  lost  all  thought  and  memory 

Of  that  for  which  I  came. 

I  stood  in  unimaginable  trance 

And  agony  that  cannot  be  remembered. 

Listening  with  horrid  hope  to  hear  a  groan  ; 

But  I  had  heard  his  last."  * 

I  should  say  that  from  the  very  nature  of 
intense  suffering  we  could  not  fail  to  remem- 
ber it.  The  greater  the  pain,  the  deeper  is  the 
impression  that  is  made  upon  the  mind.  It  is 
equally  so,  I  think,  with  intense  joy.  Although 
I  am  inclined  to  believe  that  great  misery  is 
more  readily  remembered  by  us  than  great 
happiness.  It  is  true,  however,  of  all  high- 
wrought  feeling,  that  it  confuses  the  mind. 
Let  any  one  attempt  to  read  a  book  while  in  a 

•  Works,  voL  vii.  p.  392. 


134  SOKROW. 

passion  or  state  of  excitement,  and  lie  will 
scarcely  remember  a  single  thing  that  he  reads. 
We  can  say,  then,  as  much  as  this,  that  certain 
movements  of  mind  connected  with  great  pain 
will  be  forgotten,  while  the  pain  itself  will  be 
distinctly  remembered. 

With  such  a  view  of  the  misery  of  man,  it 
is  not  difficult  to  see  how  sorrow  is  deepened 
by  it.  The  very  misery  itself  develops  a 
most  dreary  sadness.  Shadow  is  therefore 
made  to  overhang  shadow.  A  grief  that  is 
dark  and  heavy  is  the  heritage  of  the  soiil. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

THE  SOBROW  OF  CHILDREN, 

THERE  is  a  tradition  that  the  Yirgin  Mary 
and  Tasso  never  wept  when  they  were 
children.  This  is  a  beautiful  fancy,  but  nothing 
more.  There  is  no  reason  to  think  that  any 
human  being  ever  passed  through  the  years 
of  childhood  without  weeping.  Did  the  infant 
Jesus  shed  tears  ?  Did  that  soul  which  came 
from  the  climes  of  God  receive  a  shock  when 
it  touched  this  earth?  We  think  that  the 
shadow  of  a  mysterious  sorrow  must  have 
fallen  upon  it  the  moment  it  found  itself  in  con- 
tact with  a  mortal  body.  A  world  of  sinners 
was  reached  by  the  world's  Redeemer  :  the 
fact  was  announced  by  a  sigh.  And  during 
the  period  of  infant  suffering,  there  must  have 
been  infant  weeping.  We  almost  imagine 
that  the  angels  cannot  fly  over  this  earth 
without  having  their  garments  moistened  with 


136  SOEKCW. 

the  dews  of  our  night.  If  heaven  were  to 
come  down  among  us  it  would  have  to  be 
shaded.  The  divine  itself  has  to  be  veiled  the 
instant  it  comes  here.  All  over  the  earth  and 
all  over  the  years  of  man  there  is  found  sorrow. 
A  figure  of  sadness  is  always  enthroned  in  our 
sky.  The  very  beasts  that  live  among  us  pant 
and  groan.  The  fish  that  glide  through  their 
watery  world  tremble.  Even  the  trees  lament. 
The  winds  mourn.  The  moon  looks  sad. 
Why  should  not  the  infant  sigh  ? 

"There  are,  who  think  that  childhood  does  not  share 
"With  age  the  cup,  the  bitter  cup  of  care  : 
Alas !  they  know  not  this  unhappy  truth. 
That  every  age  and  rank  is  born  to  ruth.  - 
From  the  first  dawn  of  reason  in  the  mind, 
Man  is  foredoom'd  the  thorns  of  grief  to  find  ; 
At  every  step  has  further  cause  to  know 
The  draught  of  pleasure  still  is  dash'd  with  woe." 

The  first  and  last  breath  of  each  human  being 
is  a  sigh.  The  child  cries  before  it  smiles, — 
thus  uttering  a  prophecy  of  life.  Our  day 
comes  out  of  the  night,  and  is  edged  with  dark- 
ness. If  the  hours  that  are  given  to  us  were 
the  children  of  heavenly  time  they  would  be 
joyful  and  fair,  telling  only  of  purity  and  God. 
But  such  is    not  their  nature.     Our  souJs  are 


The  Sokrow  of  Childeen.  137 

damaged  from  the  start,  and  the  moments  are 
Vv'eary  wheii  they  pass  away.  The  bhght  that 
fell  upon  Eden  fell  upon  us.  In  this  world 
death  begins  with  life.  The  fountain  that  bub- 
bles up  at  the  foot  of  the  hill  flows  onward 
a  mixed  stream.  The  flowers  that  bloom  here 
were  not  brought  from  heaven.  The  first  seed 
only  was  from  that  land.  A  cold  chmate,  how- 
ever, soon  weakened  it ;  and  ever  since  that 
time  there  has  been  feebleness  and  decay.  We 
call  this  world  our  native  country  j  yet  we  do 
not  feel  well  here.  We  look  about  us  and 
sigh,  as  if  there  were  another  region  for  which 
we  were  made  j  and  sometimes  we  dream  of 
another- land  that  is  far  better  than  this.  ]N'ot 
real- children  of  God  are  we  ;  and  yet  there  is 
something  in  us  that  feels  round  for  one  Being, 
-even  as  a  child  at  midnight  turns  over  in  its  bed 
and  feels  whether  its  father  is  there  or  not. 
All  of  us  are  weary,  as  if  the  journey  we  had 
travelled  had  been  long.  The  very  infant  is  tired 
before  it  steps ;  and  a  sudden  cry  in  the  midst  of 
its  wakefulness  or  in  the  midst  of  its  sleep  is  the 
echo  of  its  pain.  I  am  convinced  of  this,  that 
each  child  has  a  sadness  that  is  never  remem- 
bered. No  history  would  be  so  interesting  aa 
the  history  of  an  infant  mind. 


138  SORBOW. 

One  of  the  most  striking  things  about  a 
child  is  the  feehng  of  uneasiness.  This  can  be 
seen  before  there  is  any  power  of  speech,  or  any 
attempt  made  by  signs  to  let  us  know  what  is 
wanted.  It  is  evident  that  there  is  something 
that  is  not  pleasing.  The  uneasy  sensation  we 
interpret  as  the  shrinking  of  the  nature  because 
of  some  evil,  implying  in  this  that  a  good  is 
wanted.  Certainly  there  is  no  absolute  com- 
posure to  the  infant  soul.  That  soul  is  not 
balanced.  The  infant  is  not  an  ideal  crea- 
ture. The  instrument  is  not  tuned.  The 
harmony  is  not  perfect.  There  is  a  stage 
of  life  when  we  can  do  anything  with  a  child, 
and  it  will  not  know  ;  yet  there  is  another 
stage  of  life  when  if  a  stranger  wants  to  take 
that  child,  it  will  shrink  away  from  him  and 
cry,  clinging  to  its  mother.  The  mother  in  this 
case  is  looked  upon  as  a  safe  person,  the 
stranger  as  one  that  is  not  safe  ;  while  fear 
prompts  to  flee  from  the  one,  and  love  to  cling 
to  the  other  ;  the  crying  being  as  it  were  the 
signal  of  danger.  At  a  more  advanced  period, 
when  the  child  begins  to  amuse  itself,  what 
changeableness  is  manifest.  All  engrossed  at 
first  with  its  playthings,  it  soon  becomes  tired 
and  leaves  them.     How  much  this  looks  like 


The  Sorrow  of  Children.  139 

man.  One  hour  he  is  pleased  ;  the  next  he  is 
dissatisfied.  Both  child  and  man  are  restless. 
Something  is  lost ;  something  is  wanted  ;  each 
is  troubled.  I  wonder  not  that  the  saint  leaves 
the  earth  with  a  sigh  of  relief,  entering  heaven 
with  a  song. 

Are  net  children  more  sad  than  they  appear 
to  he  ?  I  am  inclined  to  think  that  they  are. 
The  difficulty  is,  that  we  do  not  get  near 
enough  to  them  to  know  how  they  feel,  nor 
they  near  enough  to  us  to  open  their  hearts. 
There  are  childish  troubles  which  are  insignifi- 
cant to  us  because  we  are  men,  but  they  are 
not  by  any  means  insignificant  to  the  child. 
The  causes  of  sorrow  in  a  child  differ  in  many 
respects  from  the  causes  of  sorrow  in  a  man. 
By  losing  sight  of  this  fact  we  form  a  mistaken 
judgment  in  regard  to  the  young.  Very  small 
things  awaken  their  emotions.  The  little  boy 
who  receives  a  gift  of  a  ball  may  be  as  much 
pleased  with  that  as  the  man  who  receives  the 
gift  of  a  hundred  dollars  j  and  if  that  ball 
should  be  lost,  there  may  be  as  much  sadness 
in  the  mind  of  the  boy  as  in  the  mind  of  the 
man,  if  his  hundred  dollars  should  be  lost. 
Children  have  a  notion  of  values  that  is  pecu- 
liarly their  own.     Hence  they  will   be  found 


140  Sorrow. 

gathering  together  old  buttons,  pieces  of  iron 
and  wood,  strings  and  broken  watch-keys  j 
anything  in  fact  that  seems  to  them  to  be  suit- 
able for  their  own  little  sphere, — that  sphere 
where  they  mimic  those  who  are  above  them. 
If  we  were  to  watch  a  child  closely  during  a 
single  day,  in  order  to  become  acquainted  with 
its  sorrows,  we  should  be  astonished  at  their 
number.  That  child  may  be  at  home,  yet  the 
home-life  has  its  troubles  ;  it  may  be  at  school, 
where  there  are  tasks,  strifes,  and  emulations  j 
at  play,  where  there  are  deceptions,  partialities, 
and  cruelties, — ^in  all  these  there  is  sorrow. 
^'  Cowper  was  frequently  heard  to  lament  the 
persecution  he  sustained  in  his  childish  years, 
from  the  cruelty  of  his  school-fellows  in  the 
two  scenes  of  his  education.  His  own  forcible 
expression  represented  him  at  Westminster  as 
not  daring  to  raise  his  eye  above  the  shoe- 
buckle  of  the  elder  boys,  who  were  too  apt  to 
tyrannize  over  his  gentle  spirit."  Just  think 
of  the  mockeries,  the  calling  of  names,  the  play- 
ing of  tricks,  and  see  how  much  of  anguish 
comes  to  the  mind  of  a  child  from  these  sources. 
We  have  been  startled  also  at  the  amount  of 
destructiveness  which  belongs  to  children. 
**  The  popular  idea,"  remarks  Herbert  Spencer, 


The  Sorrow  of  Children.  141 

"that  children  are  innocent,  while  it  may  be 
true  is  so  far  as  it  refers  to  evil  knowledge^  is 
totally  false  in  so  far  as  it  refers  to  evil  impulses, 
as  half  an  hour's  observation  in  the  nursery 
will  prove  to  any  one.  Boys  when  left  to 
themselves,  as  at  public  school,  treat  each 
other  far  more  brutally  than  men  do  ;  and 
were  they  left  to  themselves  at  an  earlier  age 
their  brutahty  would  be  still  more  conspicu- 
ous." *  We  do  not  believe,  however,  that 
children  at  first  are  barbarians  ;  that  after- 
wards they  become  civilized ;  then  perfected, 
— the  civilization  and  perfection  being  reached 
through  self  development.  This  would  make 
the  child  worse  than  the  man.  Such  a  theory 
is  no  better  than  that  other  one  which  makes 
all  children  to  be  good  at  first,  and  bad  after- 
wards. The  idea  of  infant  saints  or  infant 
savages  does  not  match  with  the  truth. 

Many  a  child  is  sad  without  realizing  it. 
The  very  thought  of  such  a  fact  is  painful  to  us. 
If  we  saw  a  man  in  the  last  stage  of  consump- 
tion who  considered  himself  to  be  well,  or  who 
expected  to  be  well  quite  soon,  we  should  feel 
troubled.     If  we  entered  a  house   and  there 

*  Education,  p.  206. 


142  *  SOBROW. 

beheld  a  mother  watching  over  an  only  son 
who  was  sick,  she  having  the  conviction  that  he 
would  be  restored  to  health,  when  he  would  not, 
— seeing  the  mother  thus  deceived  would  make 
us  feel  sad.  The  sight  of  a  man  gradually  los- 
ing his  money,  and  he  not  aware  of  it ;  of  a 
captain  steering  his  ship  towards  a  point  of 
danger,  which  he  takes  to  be  a  point  of  safety  ; 
of  a  person  lost,  yet  he  thinking  that  he  is 
saved, — -such  visions  are  exceedingly  depressing 
in  their  nature.  In  the  same  way  are  we  de- 
pressed by  the  fact  of  a  youthful  sorrow  that  is 
not  realized.  What  an  array  of  children  there 
are  whose  whole  existence  is  clouded !  They 
seem  Hke  -those  who  have  always  lived  in  a 
prison  ;  who  have  always  lived  in  a  mine. 
Sadness  is  in  their  nature,  in  their  blood,  in 
the  faces  and  forms  of  those  who  surround 
them.  The  very  laugh  of  such  children  is  like 
the  playing  of  a  sunbeam  on  the  face  of  a 
tombstone.  What  they  call  happiness  is  mis 
ery  ;  what  they  call  life  is  death. 

Here  is  the  picture  of  a  pitiful  child  by 
Yictor  Hugo  :  "  Cosette  was  thin  and  pale  , 
she  was  nearly  eight  years  old,  but  one  would 
hardly  have  thought  her  six.  Her  large  eyes, 
sunk  in  a  sort  of  shadow,  were  almost  put  out  by 


The  Sorrow  of  Children.  143 

continual  weeping.  The  corners  of  her  mouth 
had  that  curve  of  habitual  anguish,  which 
is  seen  in  the  condemned  and  in  the  hope- 
lessly sick.  Her  hands  were,  as  her  mother 
had  guessed,  '  covered  with  chilblains.^  The 
light  of  the  fire,  which  was  shining  upon  her, 
made  her  bones  stand  out  and  rendered  her 
thinness  fearfully  visible.  As  she  was  always 
shivering,  she  had  acquired  che  habit  of  draw- 
ing her  knees  together.  Her  whole  dress  was 
nothing  but  a  rag,  which  would  have  excited 
pity  in  the  summer,  and  which  excited  horror 
in  the  winter.  She  had  on  nothing  but  cotton, 
and  that  full  of  holes  ;  not  a  rag  of  woolen. 
Her  skin  showed  here  and  there,  and  black  and 
blue  spots  could  be  distinguished.  Her  naked 
legs  were  red  and  rough.  The  hollows  under 
her  collar  bones  would  make  one  weep.  The 
expression  of  the  countenance  of  this  child  of 
eight  years  was  habitually  so  sad  and  some- 
times so  tragical  that  it  seemed,  at  certain 
moments,  as  if  she  were  in  the  way  of  becom- 
ing an  idiot  or  a  demon." 

Suppose  we  stand  and  look  at  a  sad  child  while 
it  is  sleeping.  Poor  thing  !  do  you  now  have 
rest  ?  Anxiety  and  sorrow  are  written  upon 
your  features.     A  melancholy  wind  seems  to 


144  Sorrow. 

have  long  swept  over  your  being.  You  look 
tired.  Even  in  your  sleep  you  sigh.  Perhaps 
you  are  acting  over  again  some  dark  scene  of 
yesterday.  My  child,  what  a  history  is  yours ! 
Turbulence  and  crime  have  always  surrounded 
you.  Nothing  but  corruption  have  you 
breathed.  You  scarcely  know  what  it  is  to  be 
loved.  How  a  single  day's  kindness  would 
cheer  you.  The  person  called  your  mother  is 
now  in  the  midst  of  a  drunken  sleep  upon  the 
floor.  Even  when  you  are  awake,  you  do  not 
reahze  her  sin.  Being  so  near  to  her  by  na- 
ture, you  think  that  much  of  her  evil  is  good. 
Unconscious  creature,  one  pities  you.  Do 
you  know  anything  of  God  and  the  soul,  of 
Christ  and  heaven  ?  Have  you  ever  uttered  a 
prayer  or  entered  a  church  ?  From  a  wrecked 
ship  you  seem  to  have  been  washed  ashore 
upon  a  desolate  island.  Like  a  flower  in  a 
cave  art  thou  ;  the  sad  inhabitant  of  an  evea- 
mg  land. 

It  is  a  fact  worthy  of  notice  that  the  dreams 
of  children  are  to  a  great  extent  jpainfud.  How 
often  they  dream  of  falhng  from  some  height, 
and  awake  trembling  all  over  when  it  seemed 
to  them  that  they  were  about  to  strike  the 
bottom.     Those   who   live  near   the    sea  will 


The  Sobeow  of  Childbex.  145 

dream  that  ihey  are  falling  from  a  rock  into  the 
water,  and  those  who  inhabit  a  mountainous 
re^OTk  will  dream  that  they  are  filing  from  a 
lofty  precipice  into  a  deep  chasm  below.  In 
their  sleep  also  they  imagine  lliat  they  are 
attacked  by  robbers,  and  awake  just  as  one  is 
about  to  strike  them  down.  In  rery  many 
ways  they  are  tormented  during  the  night 
hours.  A  bad  state  of  the  body  no  doubt 
tends  to  produce  painful  dreams.  Fear  also  is 
a  leading  passioa  in  the  minds  of  children,  and 
that  calls  forth  dismal  pictures  during  the  ni^iit. 
There  is  reason  to  think  that  eren  the  hours 
of  infancy  have  troublesome  dreams  traveling 
across  them.  The  groaning  and  starting  in 
sleep  would  seem  to  betoken  that.  I  presume 
also  that  many  diildren  who  die  in  a  state  of 
stupor,  have  mihappy  motions  of  soul  caused 
by  a  diseased  body.  When  they  reach  eter- 
nity and  look  back,  death  must  appear  to  them 
as  a  painful  dream. 

That  there  is  an  apparerU  frwohumess 
about  the  sorrow  of  duldren  is  no  doubt  a  ^sict 
They  may  be  seen  crying  one  moment  because 
mother  is  dead,  and  laughing  the  next  at  some 
trifle.  Influenced  it  may  be  by  seeing  others 
in  tears,  and  influenced  again  hy  seeing  iAbem 


146  SOBEOW. 

in  joy.  This  seeming  fickleness  is  explained  by 
the  fact  that  the  child  does  not  fully  comprehend 
its  loss.  It  is  moved  to  a  great  extent  by  the 
breeze  that  touches  the  surface  of  its  being. 
The  mind  is  immature,  and  things  cannot  be 
seen  in  their  totahty.  Children  wiU  sometimes 
manifest  more  sorrow  because  a  dog  or  cat  is 
dead,  than  because  a  human  being  is  dead. 
The  reason  of  this  is,  that  the  dog  or  cat  was 
really  a  companion.  Some  of  the  most  pleasant 
hours  were  passed  in  its  society. 

As  crying  is  quite  a  characteristic  of  children, 
we  may  here  note  its  causes  :  1.  They  are  apt 
to  cry  when  they  suffer  pain.  Whether  the 
pain  is  the  result  of  chastisement,  disease,  or 
an  accidental  wound,  makes  no  difference  ;  if 
it  is  keen  enough  it  starts  crying.  2.  Children 
will  cry  when  certain  things  belonging  to  them 
have  been  injured.  If  a  rude  boy  has  broken 
their  playthings,  has  soiled  or  rent  their  clothes, 
they  instinctively  cry.  3.  There  is  also  the 
crying  of  resentment.  The  tears  that  flow  at 
such  a  time  are  like  the  drops  from  an  angry 
cloud.  A  boy  will  sometimes  strike  another, 
or  will  utter  wild,  noisy  words,  when  revenge 
excites  him.  4.  Children  cry  when  they  are 
about  to  be  punished.     They  will  do  this  with 


The  Sorrow  of  Children.  -  147 

great  loudness,  hoping  thus  that  their  avenger 
will  punish  them  but  lightly,  or  that  he  will 
not  punish  them  at  all.  5.  We  have  crying 
also  in  view  of  some  loss.  There  may  be  the 
loss  of  an  article  that  was  valued,  of  some  posi- 
tion that  was  greatly  prized,  of  some  person 
that  was  greatly  loved, — in  either  case  there  is 
bitter  weeping.  6.  I  have  noticed  also  that 
there  are  children  who  will  cry  when  they  have 
missed  their  lesson.  Perhaps  the  simple  fact 
of  failure  troubles  them,  or  perhaps  shame  or 
pride  may  be  at  the  bottom.  7.  When  some- 
thing is  wanted  very  much,  crying  is  intro- 
duced as  a  means  to  gain  the  end.  This  is  a 
stroke  of  policy  with  the  young.  To  tease  and 
whine,  naturally  go  together.  8.  There  are 
children  who  will  cry  when  they  cannot  have 
their  own  way.  Temper,  self-will,  open  re- 
bellion, all  show  themselves  in  the  noise  that  is 
made.  The  crying  may  change  to  sobbing. 
This  tells  us  that  the  grief  is  bitter  ;  frequently 
it  shows  a  stubborn  disposition, — the  child  sobs 
because  it  does  not  want  to  yield.  The  sor- 
row, however,  is  giving  way  a  little.  When  a 
storm  at  sea  is  subsiding,  the  waves  have  a 
longer  swell,  and  are  farther  apart ;  so  is  it 
with  grief    when  crying  changes   to   sobbing. 


148  SOBROW. 

There  is  a  crying  that  results  from  weakness. 
9.  The  nervous  system  may  be  unstrung,  the 
usual  tone  of  health  gone,  every  little  thing 
troubles,  and  so  the  tendency  is  to  complain 
and  whimper.  10.  Children  will  cry  through 
the  force  of  sympathy  ;  as  when  they  see 
others  in  tears,  or  when  they  see  their  school- 
mates punished.  11.  There  are  some  young 
people  who  have  a  painful  weeping  because 
they  find  themselves  alone  in  a  dark  world. 
The  friends  they  once  had  are  gone  ;  no 
one  feels  an  interest  in  their  welfare  ;  their 
path  through  life  is  dreary  and  difficult ;  there- 
fore they  weep.  12.  A  true  child  will  cry  be- 
cause it  has  sinned.  This  shows  life  ;  shows 
turning  to  Grod  and  heaven. 

Children  are  saddened  by  the  deceptive. 
Even  the  distinction  between  a  literal  and  spir- 
itual meaning  they  do  not  always  understand. 
They  are  to  a  great  extent  literalists.  Fables 
to  them  at  first  are  quite  absurd.  An  allegory 
they  read  as  if  it  were  a  real  story.  Irony  is 
a  style  of  speech  that  puzzles  them  ;  especially 
if  used  by  a  good  man.  A  joke  is  sometimes  a 
source  of  great  uneasiness  to  a  child.  De 
Quincey  mentions  a  case  in  his  own  youthful 
experience  which  illustrates  this.     lie  had  sub- 


The  Soekow  of  Childeen.  149 

scribed  for  a  work  on  navigation  which  was  to 
come  out  in  numbers,  extending  to  sixty  or 
eighty.  Being  somewhat  uneasy  about  the 
probable  size  of  the  treatise,  he  entered  the 
bookseller's  store  one  day  in  order  to  ascertain 
the  truth  as  near  as  possible.  Finding  a  young 
man  attending  to  customers,  who  was  full  of 
fun  and  frohc,  De  Quincey  says  :  "  I  described 
the  work  to  him,  and  he  understood  me  at  once. 
How  many  volumes  did  he  think  it  would  ex- 
tend to  ?  '  How  many  volumes  ?  0 1  really,  I 
can't  say;  maybe  a  matter  of  15,000,  be  the 
same  more  or  less.^  More  ?  I  said,  in  horror, 
altogether  neglecting  the  contingency  of  less. 

*  Why,'  he  said,  *  we  can't  settle  these  things  to  a 
nicety.  But  considering  the  subject '  [ay,  that 
was  the  very  thing  which  I  myself  considered] , 

*  I  should  say  there  might  be  some  trifle  over,  as 
suppose  400  or  500  volumes,  be  the  same  more 
or  less.'  What,  then, — here  there  might  be  sup- 
plements to  supplements, — the  work  might  pos- 
sibly never  end !  On  one  pretence  or  another,  if 
an  author  or  publisher  might  add  500  volumes, 
he  might  add  another  round  15,000.  I  asked 
no  more,  but  slunk  out  of  the  shop,  and  never 
again  entered  it  with  cheerfulness,  or  pro- 
pounded  any   frank  questions,  as  heretofore. 


150  Sorrow. 

For  I  was  now  seriously  afraid  of  pointing  atten- 
tion to  myself  as  one  that,  by  having  purchased 
some  numbers,  and  obtained  others  on  credit, 
had  silently  contracted  an  engagement  to  take 
all  the  rest,  though  they  should  stretch  to  the 
crack  of  doom.  Certainly  I  had  never  heard 
of  a  work  that  extended  to  15,000  volumes  j 
but  still  there  was  no  natural  impossibihty  ; 
and,  if  in  any  case,  in  none  so  reasonably  as 
one  upon  the  inexhaustible  sea."  * 

The  intense  life  of  children  forms  a  ground- 
work for  sorrow.  To  move,  to  look  about,  to 
inquire,  is  natural  to  them.  The  multitude  of 
strange  questions  which  they  ask  should  be 
answered  with  readiness,  as  far  as  that  is 
possible.  To  drive  children  away  as  mere 
troublesome  interrogation  points  is  a  great 
wrong.  Such  a  course  dampens  and  depresses 
the  mind.  Feeling  is  the  native  element  of 
the  child  ;  therefore  sorrow  or  joy  quite  easily 
arises  in  the  soul.  It  should  be  known  also 
that  "the  young  child  has  a  nervous  system  at 
least ^ve  times  larger,  in  proportion  to  its  body, 
than  the  adult.  Hence  the  restlessness  and 
animation  of  childhood,  its  quick  exhaustion, 

*  Confession  of  an  Opium-Eater,  p.  216. 


The  Sokeow  of  Chtldren.  151 

and  ready  recovery,  its  power  to  bear  rapid 
and  varied  movements,  and  its  intolerance  of 
monotony.  If  we  do  not  consider  this  nervous 
constitution  in  training  children,  we  shall  do 
violence  to  Heaven's  laws,  and  inflict  injury  on 
them,  with  woe  to  ourselves."  *  This  great 
amount  of  nervous  power  in  the  young  causes 
them  quite  frequently  to  go  too  far  in  the 
schemes  which  they  may  have  adopted.  Hence 
they  are  subject  to  reactions.  Hence  also  a 
tendency  to  sadness. 

Some  children  are  sad  because  they  feel  that 
they  may  die  quite  soon.  This  feeling  is  reason- 
able. Their  brothers  or  sisters  have  all  been 
taken  away  very  early  j  and  so  they  are  think- 
ing of  the  time  when  they  too  must  die.  Per- 
haps they  have  learned  the  fact  that  a  heredi- 
tary disease  has  tainted  all  the  family  ;  so  the 
prospect  of  long  life  is  cut  off.  To  hear  a 
child  say,  '*  I  shall  die  next, — die  quite  likely 
in  a  year  or  two,'^ — ^is  sad.  The  young  im- 
mortal carries  a  burden  Sach  day  ;  passes  on  to 
the  great  future  in  the  midst  of  a  sigh.  There 
is  a  loneliness  about  such  an  one.  As  a 
stranger  he  tarries  here.     He  is  watching  for 

•  Dr.  Moore,  The  Use  of  the  Body  in  Relation  to  the  Mind,  p.  97. 


152  '  SOKROW. 

that  to-morrow  when  he  shall  join  those  who 
have  crossed  the  river  ;  when  time  to  him  shall 
be  no  more. 

There  is  a  sadness  among  children  because 
they  do  wrong.     Perhaps  there  is  more  of  this 
kind    of  sadness   than   people    are   generally 
aware   of.     With   the  young  the  feelings   are 
tender,  and  there  are  many  desires  to  do  better 
than  they  have  done.     Children  who  are  well 
instructed,  very  soon  begin  the  struggle  with 
sin,  and  very  soon  discover  how  bad  the  heart  is. 
They  find  that  they  cannot  do  the  good  which 
they  want  to  do.     A  degree  of  despair  some- 
times settles  down  upon  them.     They  feel  as 
if  there  were  no  use  in  trying  to  become  better; 
they  have  tried  so  many  times  and  failed.     De- 
pendence upon  God,  however,  is  thus  learned. 
It  is  encouraging  to  know  that  a  few  simple 
truths  will  lead  a  child  to  the  Saviour.     The 
idea  of  a  new  heart,  the  fact  that  Christ  died 
for  each  one,  that  we  are  to  love  him  and  be 
truly  sorry  for  sin,  are  freely  adopted  by  the 
child,  and   a   new   life   commenced.     It   is    a 
blessed  thought  that  numbers  of  children  have 
been  able  to  seize  hold  of  the  essential  truths 
of  Christianity  in  all  their  singleness  and  wealth. 
With  a  faith  that  would  shame  those  who  are 


The  Soreow  of  Children.  163 

older,  and  a  hope  of  heaven  that  had  no  cloud, 
they  have  lived  the  simple  and  true  life. 
Many  die  peacefully  and  with  joy,  quite  cer- 
tain that  Jesus  will  receive  them  into  his  king- 
dom. It  is  one  of  the  chief  glories  of  our  re- 
ligion that  it  fits  all  classes  of  minds.  The 
ignorant  heathen,  the  little  child,  and  the  great 
philosopher  find  a  way  of  salvation  that  is  suit- 
able to  them  all.  If  the  Christian  remedy  de- 
manded close  and  prolonged  study  before  one 
could  make  use  of  it,  millions  of  the  young  and 
the  uneducated  would  be  shut  out  from  its  in- 
fluence. To  have  a  child  now  in  heaven  wait- 
ing for  us,  who  while  upon  earth  rested  quietly 
on  Christ  and  died  with  a  smile,  is  an  exceed- 
ingly pleasant  thought.  It  may  be  that  our 
loved  ones  will  meet  us  the  first  as  we  enter 
the  gate  of  the  city  of  God.  Quick- winged 
seraphim  may  hasten  away  from  our  death- 
bed, and  announce  that  we  are  coming  ;  so 
that  when  we  reach  the  celestial  country  our 
children  may  be  at  our  side  to  greet  us,  and  to 
introduce  us  to  the  exalted  beings  who  are 
there  to  welcome  us  hon\p. 


CHAPTER  X. 

THE  BIBLE  AND  SORROW, 

AS  one  reads  througti  the  Bible  lie  is  struck 
with  the  calmness  of  its  writers.  Consid- 
ering the  great  variety  of  subjects  which  are 
treated  by  the  inspired  penmen,  we  are  aston- 
ished at  their  self-command.  There  are  times 
when  to  our  view  their  whole  being  would  be 
a  heart,  and  that  heart  tumultuous  with  grief, 
yet  the  language  used  does  not  show  anything 
of  the  kind.  The  expulsion  of  our  first  parents 
from  Paradise  and  the  murder  of  Abel,  are 
stated  without  any  manifestations  of  deep  sor- 
row. How  strange  that  such  significant  occur- 
rences should  simply  be  noted  in  plain  historic 
style.  We  have  no  sorrowful  pictures  of  the 
flood, — ^no  mention  is  made  of  the  cries  and 
struggles  of  drowning  people.  Even  the  doom 
of  the   finally  wicked  is   pronounced  without 


The  Bible  and  Sorkow.  155 

any  outward  marks  of  sadness.  I  am  not  sure 
but  that  Infinite  Justice  means  to  teach  us  by 
such  instances  ihsit  genitive  emotion^  when  it  is 
called  for,  should  have  a  pre-eminence  over  sad 
or  sympathetic  emotion.  It  is  worthy  of  no- 
tice also  that  in  no  part  of  the  Bible  is  the  at- 
tempt made  to  he  pathetic.  Facts  are  not 
selected  and  arranged  for  the  special  purpose 
of  making  one  shed  tears.  Few  speakers  or 
writers,  with  suitable  materials  before  them, 
fail  of  making  an  effort  in  this  line.  It  is  a  re- 
lief to  find  one  book  where  everything  is  rigidly 
truthful ;  where  nothing  is  mentioned  merely 
because  it  will  appear  well ;  where  nothing  is 
drawn  out  for  the  sake  of  effect. 

How  remarkable  it  is  that  the  sufferings  of 
Christ  should  be  stated  with  such  cool  balance 
of  mind.  Here  was  an  exalted  person  ;  he  had 
no  sin,  he  suffered  unusual  pains,  suffered  in 
the  room  and  stead  of  the  guilty  ;  yet  he  is 
spoken  of  with  a  sobriety  of  manner  that  is 
certainly  peculiar.  The  Iremty  of  statement 
also  is  exceedingly  strange.  If  .exhaustiveness 
would  seem  to  be  required  anywhere,  why 
should  it  not  be  required  when  speaking  of  the 
atoning  sufferings  of  the  Son  of  God  ?  A  sim- 
ple hint,  however,  here  and  there,  is  all  that 


156  Sorrow. 

meets  us.  High-wrought  description,  which 
demands  length,  is  not  found.  The  hfe  of 
Christ  as  written  by  John  can  be  read  in  two 
hours  :  the  hfe  of  Washington  as  written  by 
Irving  would  take  two  weeks  to  read  it.  The 
gospel  writers  never  paint.  Christ  is  not 
eulogized.  No  contrasts  are  drawn  out  in 
order  to  exalt  him.  Art  cannot  set  him  off. 
He  would  be  lessened  by  it.  He  is  more  per- 
fect than  all  art.  Even  when  stating  the  fact 
of  his  agony,  no  expressions  of  wonder  are 
used  ;  not  even  expressions  of  sympathy. 
There  is  not  the  least  sign  of  uncontrollable 
feeling.  It  must  be  confessed  that  all  this  is  out 
of  the  range  of  mere  human  composition. 
Read  any  sermnn  on  the  crucifixion  scene, — 
how  the  most  tender  emotion  trembles  with 
every  word  1  Read  the  biography  of  a  deeply 
pious  man, — especially  read  about  his  suffer- 
ings and  death, — what  sorrow  is  manifest !  If 
the  gospel  writers  do  not  show  to  me  a  human 
sorrow  where  naturally  I  would  expect  to  see 
it,  they  do  at  least  show  me  a  divine  wisdom 
where  naturally  I  could  not  expect  to  find  it. 
The  account  of  the  sufferings  of  Jesus  cannot 
be  a  fiction.  Fictitious  writers  would  never 
travel  in  the  track  of  the  four  Evangelists ;  and 


The  Bible  and  Sorrow.  157 

mere  uninspired  writers  telling  of  a  true  Christ, 
or  one  they  thought  to  be  true,  would  never 
describe  him  as  he  is  described. 

In  giving  statements  of  great  wickedness  also, 
the  Biblical  writers  are  oftentimes  exceedingly 
calm  in  their  manner.  There  are  times  when 
we  should  think  that  expressions  of  abhorrence, 
indignation,  and  sorrow,  would  leap  forth,  but 
nothing  of  the  kind  appears.  The  facts  are 
merely  stated;  stated  with  great  exactness; 
and  thus  left  upon  the  inspired  page  as  dark 
memorials  of  evil.  We  wonder  at  times  why 
the  writer  does  not  make  known  his  opinion 
touching  the  greatness  and  guilt  of  the  sin 
which  he  has  just  chronicled,  or  why  he  does 
not  throw  out  some  warning  in  regard  to  it ; 
but  to  write  as  we  write  was  not  his  mission. 
A  human  hand  holds  the  pen,  but  a  Divine  Spirit 
guides  it.  With  what  apparent  composure  the 
drunkenness  of  Noah  is  stated,  the  lying  of  Abra- 
ham, the  incest  of  Lot,  and  the  destruction  of 
the  innocents  by  Herod.  The  narrative  of  the 
latter  case,  however,  closes  with  a  sad  quota- 
tion:  "In  Ramah  was  there  a  voice  heard, 
lamentation,  and  weeping,  and  great  mourning, 
Rachel  weeping  for  her  children,  and  would 
not  be  comforted,  because  they  are  not."    Still, 


158  SOKROW. 

though  the  sacred  penmen  are  not  accustomed 
to  express  surprise  and  sadness  in  view  of  the 
sin  which  they  have  mentioned,  they  yet  are 
careful  to  record  the  sorrowful  utterances  of 
good  men  ;  utterances  that  were  called  forth 
by  beholding  the  evil  that  was  done.  Hence 
'  we  are  told  how  Elijah  felt  when  he  saw  the 
idolatry  that  was  around  him,  and  how  Heze- 
kiah  felt  when  the  name  of  the  God  of  Israel 
was  reviled. 

There  are  two  leading  ideas  of  the  Bible 
which  tower  upward  like  pyramids, — God  and 
redemption, — and  these  are  designed  at  first 
to  generate  a  serious  thoughtfulness.  We  be- 
hold one  God,  ever  living,  ever  present.  He 
is  never  spoken  of  philosophically.  He  is  not 
a  cold  abstract  Deity  throned  amidst  the  silent 
eternities,  but  a  Being  whose  footmarks  are 
seen  all  around  us,  and  whose  voice  speaks 
in  the  ear  of  both  child  and  man.  There  is  no 
interest  of  mortals  that  is  free  from  his  power. 
According  to  modern  science  it  is  an  antiquated 
idea  to  say  that  "God  made  us."  Yea,  it  is 
among  the  early  follies  of  untaught  mind  to  say 
that  God  made  the  first  man.  Herbert  Spencer 
thus  speaks  :  ''Surely  there  can  be  no  difficulty 
in  understanding  how,  under  appropriate  condi- 


The  Bible  and  Sorrow.  159 

tions,  a  cell  may,  in  the  course  of  untold  millions 
of  years,  give  origin  to  the  human  race/"^  Cer- 
tainly there  is  no  nonsense  that  is  so  absurd  as 
the  so-called  wisdom  of  wise  men.  To  get  rid 
of  God  would  seem  to  be  the  ultimate  knowl- 
edge. It  remains  true,  however,  that  "in  him 
we  live,  and  move,  and  have  our  being."  God 
as  revealed  in  the  Bible  impresses  the  soul. 
Man  is  made  to  think  about  subjects  to  which 
he  does  not  incline.  Redemption  also  arrests 
his  attention.  Scripture  would  have  no  mean- 
ing if  a  supernatural  redemption  were  taken 
out  of  it.  Every  man  his  own  saviour,  is  essen- 
tially the  idea  of  all  systems  which  deny  the 
fact  of  a  remedy  that  centres  in  the  person  and 
work  of  the  God-man.  What  an  array  of  re- 
demptive words  do  we  find  in  the  Bible  :  Altar, 
sacrifice,  blood,  propitiation,  priest,  Mediator, 
Redeemer.  Then  we  have  atoning  phrases  : 
"Lamb  slain,"  "bruised  for  cur  iniquities." 
"made  a  curse  for  us,"  "died  the  just  for  the 
unjust." 

J^'inding  thus  God  and  redemption  as  the 
warp  and  woof  of  Scripture,  man  is  made 
thoughtful.    The  thoughtfulness  takes  that  form 

*  Principles  of  Biology,  p.  35C. 


160  Sorrow. 

whicli  is  called  pensiveness, — there  is  sorrov) 
connected  with  it.  It  is  impossible  for  a  fallen 
man  to  think  seriously  and  not  have  emotions 
of  sadness.  ISTo  doubt  it  is  easy  to  select  a 
novel  with  its  fictitious  hero  and  adulterous 
plot  that  will  start  more  tears  than  the  Bible, 
with  its  infinite  Grod  and  infinite  redemption  ; 
but  this  very  fact  only  shows  the  superior  worth 
of  these  two  great  Bible  facts, — they  lead  to  that 
consideration  which  may  be  the  first  step  to  an 
eternal  life,  and  to  that  sorrow  which  may  show 
that  sin  has  been  broken  in  upon  and  that  holi- 
ness is  begun. 

A  chief  design  of  the  word  of  God  is  to  pro- 
duce painful  feelings.  At  first  a  certain  uneasi- 
ness may  simply  be  the  result  of  divine  truth. 
Ideas  are  moving  around  the  soul ;  they  are 
seeking  to  find  an  opening  into  it ;  they  are 
attem.pting  to  tear  away  that  which  opposes, — 
the  feeling  therefore  is  one  of  uneasiness.  A 
mere  pleasure-seeker  has  no  liking  for  the  Bible  ; 
light  pains  the  diseased  eye.  There  are  pic- 
tures in  the  divine  word  which  start  fear. 
Sometimes  a  single  word  will  cause  the  soul  to 
tremble  ;  as  judgment,  eternity,  lost.  There  are 
short  sentences  into  which  are  crowded  a  uni- 
verse of  meaning,  so  that  no  one  can  read  them 


The  Bible  and  Sorkow.  161 

thoughtfully  without  being  startled.  For  in- 
stance these  :  ''The  wrath  of  the  Lamb  ;"  "God 
is  a  consuming  fire,"  "it  is  a  fearful  thing  to 
fall  into  the  hands  of  the  living  God."  There 
is  no  book  that  has  such  power  to  produce  a 
healthy  kind  of  fear  as  the  Bible.  To  attempt 
to  weaken  this  power  in  any  way  is  ruinous. 
The  sense  of  guilt  is  also  awakened.  ISTo  volume 
of  heathenism  or  scepticism  has  ever  presejited 
such  a  view  of  sin  as  the  Bible.  No  minds  have 
burned  with  such  remorse  as  those  that  have 
come  under  the  power  of  Christian  ideas. 
These  painful  feelings  are  awakened  that  man 
may  understand  his  true  condition,  and  may 
look  about  him  for  a  Saviour.  It  is  the  part  of 
wisdom  to  face  the  tremendous  facts  of  divine 
revelation,  that  thus  they  may  suitably  affect 
the  mind.  If  one  can  only  save  his  life  by 
having  a  limb  cut  off,  it  is  best  to  suffer.  The  de- 
sire for  pleasant  sensations  must  not  be  heeded. 
Pain  first,  then  peace.  Of  course  mental  agony 
must  not  be  allowed  to  go  too  far.  There  is  a 
sorrow  which  leads  to  death,  and  a  view  of  sin 
which  leads  to  despair.  If  man  were  to  see 
himself  as  he  is,  he  would  not  only  be  utterly 
miserable,  but  he  would  be  utterly  faithless. 
Redemption  in  that  case  could  not  reach  him. 


162  SOEEOW. 

Says  Mr.  Mercein:  ''The  fiery  indignation 
which  sometimes  glares  upon  the  guilty  soul 
unfits  it  for  every  duty,  and  for  all  the  offices 
that  perpetuate  and  civilize  the  race  :  like  poor 
Bunyan  sitting  on  the  horse-block  listlessly,  day 
after  day,  the  very  sun  that  cheered  all  others 
seeming  to  him  the  burning  eye  ctf  vengeance, 
and  may  we  not  say  at  once,  that  an  essential 
preliminary  to  probation  would  be  to  deaden 
this  sensibility  so  far,  that  while  remorse  and 
fear  might  attest  their  presence,  and  teach  their 
lessons,  they  should  not  overawe  and  paralyze 
the  soul."  * 

The  apocalyptic  nature  of  Scripture  thought 
will  be  almost  sure  at  first  to  generate  sadness. 
Divine  truth  searches  the  soul  even  to  its  low- 
est depths,  and  hidden  chambers  are  brought 
to  the  light.  No  book  has  such  a  self-reveal- 
ing power  as  the  Bible.  Especially  is  this  seen 
to  be  the  case  with  inquiring  persons  who  read 
it  for  the  first  time.  Such  persons  are  struck 
with  wonder,  as  if  visions  of  a  new  world  stood 
before  them.  They  keep  poring  over  the  divine 
pages,  held  to  the  work  by  a  kind  of  magnetic 
power,  till  each  leaf  of  the  soul  seems  to  turn 

,  *  Natural  Goodness,  p.  151. 


The  Bible  and  Sokrow.  163 

over  with  each  leaf  of  the  Bible,  and  they  have  a 
most  vivid  consciousness  of  mental  realities. 
A  new  sadness  springs  up  within.  The  Bible  is 
closed  with  a  sigh.  It  is  opened  again  with 
reverence.  It  is  read  again  with  tears.  Inde- 
finite longings  now  take  form.  Thoughts  are 
clearer,  feelings  are  more  intense,  aspirations 
go  quicker  toward  their  object.  The  word  of 
God  has  power  because  it  is  the  great  book 
that  contains  a  complete  statement  of  human 
nature.  Man  beholds  himself  as  in  a  glass ;  be- 
holds himself  more  truthfully  than  if  he  looked 
into  his  own  mind,  because  the  mind  is  deceived 
and  darkened  by  sin,  but  God,  the  author  of  the 
Bible,  is  not.  Only  let  the  Spirit  work  upon 
the  soul  with  the  truth,  and  that  soul  will  be 
ushered  into  a  region  of  light. 

Franke,  the  founder  of  the  Orphan  House  at 
Halle,  who  had  even  preached  while  in  a  state 
of  spiritual  darkness,  speaks  thus  of  the  change 
which  passed  over  him:  "My  whole  former 
life  came  before  my  eyes  just  as  one  sees  a 
whole  city  from  a  lofty  spire.  At  first  it 
seemed  as  if  I  could  number  all  my  sins  ;  but 
soon  there  opened  the  great  fountain  of  them 
— my  blind  unbelief,  which  had  so  long  de- 
ceived me.     I  was  terrified  with  my  lost  con- 

OF  THE 

TJFI7EESIT 


164  Sorrow. 

dition,  and  wondered  if  God  were  merciful 
enough  to  bless  me.  I  kneeled  down  and 
prayed.  All  doubt  vanished.  I  was  assured 
ill  my  own  heart  of  the  grace  of  Grod  in  Christ. 
Now  I  know  him,  not  alone  as  my  God,  but  as 
my  Father.  All  melancholy  and  unrest  van- 
ished, and  I  was  so  overcome  with  joy,  that 
from  the  fullness  of  my  heart  I  could  praise  my 
Saviour.  With  great  sorrow  I  had  kneeled  ; 
but  with  wonderful  ecstasy  I  had  risen  up.  It 
seemed  to  me  as  if  my  whole  previous  life  had 
been  a  deep  sleep  j  as  if  I  had  only  been  dream- 
ing, and  now  for  the  first  time  had  waked 
up."  * 

Perhaps  Scripture  has  failed  to  impress  us 
just  because  of  a  Gertsiin  freedom  we  have  taken 
with  it.  Too  much  familiarity  is  not  condu- 
cive to  deep  emotion.  The  sound  of  certain 
words  may  have  fallen  upon  our  ears  so  many 
times  that  we  cease  to  grasp  their  distinct 
meaning.  A  rigid  and  serious  discipline  of  at- 
tention may  be  necessary  on  our  part.  There 
is  no  doubt  a  period  coming  when  the  word 
of  God  will  make  a  deeper  impression  on  the 
minds  of  men  than  it  does  at  present.  We 
have  never  yet  witnessed  the  full  power  of  di- 

*  Hurst,  Hist  of  Kationalism,  p.  94 


The  Bible  and  Sorrow.  165 

vine  truth.  The  Bible  that  has  thus  far  been 
reaUzed  in  .human  consciousness  is  a  very  dif- 
ferent production  from  the  real  Bible.  If  the 
mental  Bible  could  be  written  out  and  placed 
side  by  side  with  the  literal  Bible,  we  should  be 
astonished  at  the  difference  between  the  two. 
If  it  were  possible  for  us  to  see  a  world  of  souls 
receiving  the  full  impression  which  the  word  of 
God  is  capable  of  producing,  it  would  be  a 
most  instructive  sight.  Sometimes  we  catch 
hints  in  regard  to  the  capabilities  of  Scripture, 
— as  when  a  single  sentence  enters  the  soul 
of  a  wicked  man  and  changes  the  current  of 
that  soul  in  a  moment ;  also  when  hundreds  of 
people  are  made  to  bend  under  the  power  of 
one  divine  thought,  and  incited  to  press  on 
through  utmost  danger  because  of  it. 

There  is  a  sorrow  referred  to  in  the  Bible  of 
a  lofty  kind  ;  namely,  that  sorrow  which  the 
good  feel  when  they  see  the  wickedness  of  men. 
We  hear  one  saying:  '*I  beheld  the  trans- 
gressors and  was  grieved."  ''Rivers  of  water 
run  down  mine  eyes,  because  they  keep  not 
thy  law.''  Another  says  :  "  Oh  that  my  head 
were  waters,  and  mine  eyes  a  fountain  of  tears, 
that  I  might  weep  day  and  night  for  the  slain 
of  the  daughter  of  my  people  ! "     Still  another 


166  SOKEOW. 

says:  "I  have  great  heaviness  and  continual 
sorrow  in  my  heart.  For  I  could  wish  that 
myself  were  accursed  from  Christ  for  my  bre- 
thren, my  kinsmen  according  to  the  flesh."  It 
is  in  making  known  such  sorrow  as  this  that 
the  Bible  stands  pre-eminent.  The  common 
grief  of  man  does  not  resemble  it.  To  weep  at 
a  sick-bed  or  a  sepulchre,  to  mourn  because 
of  a  joy  that  will  return  not  again,  is  natural ; 
but  to  entreat  men  with  tears  to  forsake  sin 
and  turn  to  God  is  not  natural.  Let  the  good 
simply  behold  moral  indifference,  behold  a  hap- 
piness that  is  delusive,  and  they  will  sigh  in 
their  inmost  being.  Immortal  creatures  are 
seen  with  their  conscience  benumbed,  their  rea- 
son darkened,  their  heart  dead.  Men  are 
asleep  dreaming  of  heaven  with  a  knife  at  their 
throat.  The  sight  palls  and  pains  the  soul. 
The  constant  vision  of  evil  causes  the  grief  to 
settle  down  into  a  fixed  state.  The  burden 
which  the  wicked  ought  to  carry,  is  carried 
by  the  righteous.  The  righteous  in  this  way 
become  vicarious  sufferers.  A  book  that  points 
out  such  sorrow  is  no  common  book.  The  very 
sorrow  appears  to  be  divine.  How  much  more 
divine  is  that  volume  which  first  reveals  it ; 
yea,  which  first  develops  it ! 


The  Bible  and  Soeeow.  167 

Portions  of  the  Bible  are  strictly  pathetic. 
Take  the  story  of  Joseph  and  his  brethren.  It 
is  next  to  impossible  to  read  that  without  shed- 
ding tears.  What  a  mournful  cry  sounds  out 
from  the  book  of  Job.  A  language  of  sorrow 
is  put  into  our  mouth  ;  the  very  language  at 
times  we  would  want  to  use.  For  instance 
this  :  "When  I  lie  down,  I  say,  When  shall  I 
arise,  and  the  night  be  gone  ?  and  I  am  full  of 
tossings  to  and  fro  unto  the  dawning  of  the  day. 
My  days  are  swifter  than  a  weaver's  shuttle, 
and  are  spent  without  hope.  Oh  remember 
that  my  life  is  wind  :  mine  eye  shall  no  more 
see  good."  How  plaintive  are  such  words. 
They  seem  like  the  lament  of  a  stray  wind  that  is 
wandering  around  a  cottage  where  one  is  dead. 
And  when  we  come  to  the  book  of  Ecclesiastes, 
we  reach  the  painful  dissatisfaction  of  man  ;  a 
dissatisfaction  which  reveals  itself  in  a  kind  of 
double  wail, — "  vanity  of  vanities  ;  all  is  vanity  J^ 
As  if  the  immortal  soul  were  sick  of  all  earthly 
things,  that  in  the  midst  of  its  being  it  was 
weary  and  longed  for  repose  ;  sighing  for  a 
good  never  yet  found,  a  good  which  can  only 
be  realized  in  God.  There  is  a  sorrow  of  man 
which  is  like  the  foam  on  the  surface  of  a 
stream  ;  that  foam  breaks  asunder  and  is  gone, 


168  Sorrow. 

but  the  stream  rolls  on  forever  :  there  is  an 
abiding  sorrow  which  is  like  the  stream  /  it  was 
that  which  agitated  the  mind  of  the  preacher, 
causing  him  to  say  of  each  earthly  object,  "this 
is  vanity  and  vexation  of  spirit."  Turning  to 
the  lamentations  of  Jeremiah,  the  fact  of  ruin 
meets  us,  and  in  the  midst  of  the  ruin  we  seem 
to  sit  oppressed  with  sadness.  The  weeping 
prophet  utters  his  lament  as  it  were  at  our 
side  :  "How  is  the  gold  become  dim!  how  is 
the  most  fine  gold  changed!  Our  necks  are 
under  persecution  ;  we  labor  and  have  no  rest. 
The  elders  have  ceased  from  the  gate,  the  young 
men  from  their  music.  The  joy  of  our  heart  is 
ceased;  our  dance  is  turned  into  mourning. 
The  crown  is  fallen  from  our  heads  :  woe  unto 
us  that  we  have  sinned." 

The  hooh  of  Psalms,  however,  may  be  looked 
upon  as  the  great  pathetic  book  of  the  Bible. 
It  has  been  said  that  "no  man  is  qualified  to' 
write  a  commentary  on  the  Psalms  of  David,  who 
has  not  known  some  great  sorrow."  The  state- 
ment is  correct.  Let  one  be  despondent,  afflict- 
ed, suffering  the  pangs  of  guilt,  in  want  of  a 
friend,  he  turns  to  the  Psalms.  These  inspired 
odes  have  wonderful  manifoldness.  They  touch 
the  soul  at  every  point  of  experience.     They 


The  Bible  and  Sorrow.  169 

seem  to  contain  a  synopsis  of  human  sorrow, 
and  equally  a  synopsis  of  that  good  which  is  able 
to  counteract  it.  Here  we  have  a  Bible  within 
a  Bible  ;  as  if  the  most  pressing  thoughts  of 
God  and  of  man  were  made  to  flow  in  emotion- 
al language,  that  they  might  reach  the  hearts 
of  wandering  and  downcast  people.  "How 
men  of  all  conditions,  all  habits  of  thought,  have 
lie're  met,  vying  with  one  another  in  expres- 
sions of  affection  and  gratitude  to  this  book,  in 
teUing  what  they  owed  to  it,  and  what  it  had 
proved  to  them.  Men  seemingly  the  most  un- 
likely to  express  enthusiasm  about  any  such 
matter — lawyers  and  statists  immersed  deeply  in 
the  world's  business,  classical  scholars  familiar 
with  other  models  of  beauty,  other  standards 
of  art — these  have  been  forward  as  the  for- 
wardest  to  set  their  seal  to  this  book,  have  left 
their  confession  that  it  was  the  voice  of  their 
inmost  heart,  that  the  spirit  of  it  passed  into 
their  spirits  as  did  the  spirit  of  no  other  book, 
that  it  found  them  more  often  and  at  greater 
depths  of  their  being,  lifted  them  to  higher 
heights  than  any  other."  *  He  who  would 
weep   the  praises   of  God  as  well  as  he  who 

*  Trench,  Fitness  of  Scripture  for  Unfolding  the  Spiritual  Life 
of  Man.    Lect.  III. 


170  Sorrow. 

would  sing  them  may  look  into  his  Psalter. 
Millions  of  penitent  men  have  read  the  fifty-first 
Psalm.  Millions  of  dying  saints  have  comforted 
their  souls  with  these  words  :  "  Though  I  walk 
through  the  valley  of  the  shadow  of  death,  I 
will  fear  no  evil ;  for  thou  art  with  me  ;  thy  rod 
and  thy  staff  they  comfort  me."  And  what  can 
equal  that  fine  funeral  classic,  the  ninetieth 
Psalm  ? — "  The  days  of  our  years  are  threescore 
years  and  ten  ;  and  if  by  reason  of  strength 
they  be  fourscore  years,  yet  is  their  strength 
labor  and  sorrow  ;  for  it  is  soon  cut  off,  and  we 
fly  away." 

It  is  not  a  little  remarkable  that  the  great 
pathetic  and  devotional  book  of  the  Bible 
should  be  found  in  the  Old  lestament.  Strange 
that  writers,  amidst  the  imperfect  light  of  Ju- 
daism, should  compose  such  a  work  for  the 
finished  dispensation  of  Christ !  No  doubt  we 
should  have  struck  out  a  different  thought. 
Men  who  had  seen  the  Lord,  who  had  witness- 
ed the  power  of  the  Spirit,  who  had  labored 
and  suffered  with  the  early  church, — these  are 
the  ones,  we  should  have  said,  to  write  a  book 
of  devotion  for  the  saints  of  the  Christian  ages. 
In  the  N'ew  Testament,  however,  there  is  noth- 
ing of  the  kind.    Right  in  the  centre  of  the  Bible, 


The  Bible  and  Sorkow.  171 

as  if  in  the  Jieart  to  speak  to  the  heart,  is  found 
the  language  of  meditation,  of  sorrow  and  of 
worship,  on  the  wings  of  which  the  soul  may  be 
borne  upward  to  the  throne  of  God  and  the 
Lamb.  Human  weakness,  temptation  and  sin, 
hope  and  fear,  contrition  and  fkith,  are  essen- 
tially the  same  in  all  ages.  The  Psalms,  there- 
fore, may  fit  all  periods.  They  will  be  sung 
during  the  years  of  the  millennium  ;  will  be 
wept  over  during  the  darkness  that  precedes  the 
last  day. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

THE  WORKING    OF    THAT  SORROW  WHICH   ARISF3 
BECAUSE  OF  THE  DEAD, 

SORROW  that  arises  because  of  the  dead  will 
sometimes  unite  enemies.  Past  differences 
are  forgotten  by  reason  of  the  greatness  of  the 
common  loss.  The  grief  is  so  great  that  it 
drowns  the  enmity.  Coleridge,  speaking  of  a 
certain  English  admiral,  says  :  ''  When  he  died 
it  seemed  as  if  no  man  was  stranger  to  another  : 
for  all  were  made  acquaintances  by  the  rights 
of  a  common  anguish.  In  the  fleet  itself,  many 
a  private  quarrel  was  forgotten,  no  more  to  be 
remembered ;  many  who  had  been  alienated, 
became  once  more  good  friends  ;  yea,  many  a 
one  was  reconciled  to  his  very  enemy,  and 
loved,  and,  as  it  were,  thanked  him,  for  the 
bitterness  of  his  grief,  as  if  it  had  been  an  act 
of  consolation  to  himself  in  an  intercourse  of 
private  sympathy."  *     In  fact  all  intense  emo- 

*  Works,  vol,  ii.  p.  517.    Harper's  ed. 


Sorrow  and  Death.  173 

tion  that  differs  in  its  nature  from  the  enmity 
will  have  a  tendency  to  weaken  it.  Suppose  a 
whole  family  have  been  murdered  in  cold  blood  : 
the  entire  community  will  be  excited,  and  men, 
whatever  their  enmities,  will  league  together  in 
order  to  search  out  the  murderer.  A  general 
feeling  of  joy  will  also  tend  to  bring  foes  toge- 
ther, and  a  high  degree  of  religious  feeling  wiU 
work  in  the  same  way.  Impending  danger  (as 
during  a  shipwreck)  will  cement  those  who 
have  been  the  most  unfriendly,  causing  them 
to  do  anything  in  order  to  provide  a  way  of  es- 
cape. A  man  also  will  speak  to  his  enemy  be- 
fore he  dies,  although  formerly  he  would  not 
notice  him.  It  is  felt  to  be  too  dangerous  to 
carry  hatred  into  eternity. 

We  have  a  feeling  of  sorrow  and  indignation 
when  one  has  come  to  his  death  by  the  co^re- 
lessness  or  crime  of  others.  Our  sorrow  arises 
because  of  the  death  ;  our  indignation,  because 
of  the  wrong  that  caused  it.  If  a  man  allowed 
his  friend  to  die  because  he  was  so  penurious 
that  he  would  not  provide  the  means  by  which 
to  restore  him  to  health,  we  feel  indignant  at  such 
hard-heartedness.  Or  if  an  ignorant  nurse  or 
physician  has  failed  to  do  what  was  necessary 
for  the  sick  person,  and  he  dies  as  a  conse- 


174  Sorrow. 

quence,  we  are  displeased  and  saddened  at  the 
same  time.  If  one  is  killed  outright,  we  are 
enraged  at  the  murderer,  and  wish  to  have 
him  seized  and  punished ;  while  we  lament  the 
untimely  fate  of  him  who  has  been  slain.  This 
double  feeling  can  be  seen  in  the  following 
quotation  from  Homer : 

"  Meantime  the  Greeks  all  night  with  tears  and 

groans 
Bewail'd  Patroclus  :  on  his  comrade's  breast 
Achilles  laid  his  murder-dealing  hands, 
And  led  with  bitter  groans  the  loud  lament. 
As  when  the  hunters,  in  the  forest's  depth, 
Have  robb'd  a  bearded  lion  of  his  cubs  ; 
Too  late  arriving,  he  with  anger  chafes  ; 
Then  follows,  if  perchance  he  may  o'ertake. 
Through  many  a  mountain  glen,  the  hunter's  steps, 
With  grief  and  fury  fiU'd  ;  so  Peleus'  son. 
With  bitter  groans,  the  Myrmidons  address'd."  * 

Death  may  generate  a  sorrow  so  overwhelm- 
ing that,  for  the  time  being,  it  stupefies  the  con- 
science.  The  niind  is  wholly  absorbed  with  the 
one  great  loss,  and  moral  distinctions  seem  to 
fade  away.  There  is  a  sinking  down  of  the 
soul ;  a  feeling  of  inability  to  do  what  ought  to 
be  done  ;    a  strong  tendency  to   remain  in  a 

•  Hiad,  vol.  11.  p.  225.    Lord  Derby's  Trans. 


Sorrow  and  Death.  176 

state  of  seclusion  ;  then  allowing  religious  du- 
ties to  pass  by  unheeded.     If  the  individual  is 
spoken   to  in   regard  to  such  remissness,  the 
overwhelming  trouble  is  mentioned  as  the  rea- 
son and  the  excuse.     He  says:     "I  really  do 
not  know  what  I  am  about  most  of  the  time. 
I  do  not  seem  to  feel  an  interest  in  anything.'^ 
There  is  a  peculiar  practice  with  some  persons 
of  staying  at  home  on  the  Sabbath   after  a 
friend  has  died.      Sometimes   a  whole  family 
will  thus  be  absent  from  the  sanctuary.     Such 
a  practice  cannot  be  justified.    A  stronger  de- 
sire than  usual  should  prompt  to  attend  church, 
rather   than  to  stay  away  from  it.     If  divine 
help  is  needed  at  any  time,  it  is  certainly  need- 
ed during  a  time  of  trouble.     Sorrow  should 
make  us  better,  not  worse.     We  can  well  ad- 
mit that  the  grief  may  be  very  great.    Perhaps 
a  son  has  died  suddenly  ;  died  at  the  beginning 
of  manhood.     All  his  prospects  are  blasted  in 
a  moment,  and  the  fond  hopes  of  the  parent 
sink  into  night.    When  the  aged  die  it  is  natur- 
al ;  when  an  infant  falls  asleep  in  death,  there 
were  no  great  thoughts  and  plans  which  swept 
on  through  life ;  but  w^hen  a  young  man  dies,  it 
is  hke  the  wTeck  of  a  ship  just  after  it  has  left 
the  harbor ;  the  friends  gaze  at  the  scene  with 


176  SORBOW. 

most  excitable  grief.     Yet  even  in  such  a  case, 
duty  need  not  be  forgotten. 

I  have  seen  what  may  be  called  'enforced  sor- 
row in  connection  with  death ;  as  when  a  per- 
son is  conscious  that  he  does  not  feel  sufficiently 
to  meet  the  demands  of  public  opinion,  and  so 
tries  to  deepen  his  grief.     However  saddening 
it  may  be  for  us  to  confess  it,  there  are  men 
who  really  have  a  feeling  of  relief  when  one 
near  to  them  has  died.  While  the  person  lived, 
he  or  she  was  felt  to  be  a  burden ;  love  between 
the  parties  was  not  very  strong  ;   and  so  now, 
when  a  separation  has  taken  place,  this  is  deem- 
ed the  best  thing  possible.     Of  course  there 
may  be  some  slight  movements  of  sorrow, — ■ 
human  nature  not  being  so  broken  up  as  to  be 
without  these, — yet  a  secret  wish  being  gratified, 
a  feeling  of  satisfaction  takes  the  place  of  a  feel- 
ing of  sadness.    Indeed,  there  may  be  sharp  sor- 
row arising  from  the  instinctive  affections ;  yet 
because  of  another  class  of  feelings  which  have  the 
moral  ascendency,  the  intense  emotion  speedily 
subsides.    A  long  indifference  will  very  soon  dry 
up  an  impulsive  grief,  even  as  a  scorching  day 
the  moisture  of  a  short  dashing  rain.     I  have 
seen  a  wife  weep  most  bitterly  over  the  death 
of  a  husband,  who  soon  had  her  grief  assuaged 


SoRKow  AND  Death.  177 

by  finding  another  one  to  take  his  place ;  and 
I  have  seen  a  husband,  with  his  awkward  sor- 
row at  the  grave  of  a  wife,  fix  upon  a  new 
partner, — a  partner  whom  he  took  to  himself 
before  three  moons  had  ceased  to  gaze  upon  the 
darkness  of  mortals  and  of  night.  Those  who 
are  familiar  with  the  history  of  England  will 
remember  the  affected  sorrow  of  Queen  Eliza- 
beth. ''  This  woman,  upon  learning  the  exe- 
cution of  the  Queen  of  Scots,  for  which  she  was 
so  well  and  so  eagerly  prepared,  burlesqued 
surprise  and  grief  with  outrageous  hypocrisy, 
clothed  herself  and  her  court  in  mourning,  spent 
her  time  in  solitude  and  tears,  declared  that  the 
warrant  was  sent  off  without  her  knowledge, 
protested  that  she  never  intended  the  death  of 
her  dear  kinswoman,  banished  Cecil  from  her 
presence,  ruined  her  dupe  Davison  by  imprison- 
ment and  a  fine  of  ten  thousand  pounds,  wrote 
a  letter  of  pretended  sorrow  and  perfidious  con- 
dolence to  the  son  of  her  victim,  succeeded  in 
imposing  silence  and  submission  upon  his  cra- 
ven and  unfilial  heart,  but  neither  deceived  nor 
silenced  the  opinion  of  the  world.'^ 

Our  sorrow  is  intensified  if  we  were  not  pre- 
sent when  a  friend  died.  Death  in  such  circum- 
stances seems  to  us  to  be  dreary,  and  it  throws 


178  Sorrow. 

a  darker  cloud  than  usual  around  our  spirit. 
How  glad  we  should  have  been  to  have  done 
something  for  the  dear  one  before  he  left  the 
earth.  The  pleasure  also  of  speaking  to  him, 
and  he  to  us.  Then  the  simple  consolation  of 
seeing  one  before  he  dies.  Nature  impels 
friends  to  be  together  when  one  of  their  num- 
ber is  departing.  See  how  the  wife  of  Hector 
laments  that  she  was  not  present  when  he  died  : 

"  Thou  to  thy  parents,  bitter  grief  has  caus'd, 

Hector !  but  bitterest  grief  of  all  has  left 

To  me !  for  not  to  me  was  giv'n  to  clasp 

The  hand  extended  from  thy  dying  bed, 

Nor  words  of  wisdom  catch,  which  night  and  day, 

With  tears,  I  might  have  treasur'd  in  my  heart."  * 

If  it  was  not  possible  for  us  to  be  present  dur- 
ing the  dying  hour,  it  is  deemed  a  great  privi- 
lege if  we  are  permitted  to  look  upon  the  dead 
body  ;  to  shed  tears  over  it  ;  to  kiss  the  marble 
brow  in  our  love.  If  the  expression  of  the  fea- 
tures is  all  natural,  we  could  linger  for  a  day 
and  gaze  upon  them.  If  one  dies  far  from  home, 
dies  with  no  friend  near  to  comfort  or  to  help, 
we  have  an  exceedingly  painful  sorrow.     If  we 


Lord  Derby's  Homer,  vol.  ii.  p.  454. 


SoREOW  AND  Death.  179 

sent  a  letter  to  liim  which  did  not  reach  its  des- 
tination till  after  he  was  dead,  the  gloom  of 
our  spirit  is  deepened  ;  but  if  it  did  reach  him 
in  time,  and  he  was  able  to  read  it,  this  miti- 
gates our  sorrow.  Then,  again,  if  I  alone  re- 
main out  of  a  whole  family,  I  sigh  the  more 
that  I  was  not  present  when  my  relative  died. 
I  think  of  the  fact,  that  no  father  .or  mother 
was  there  to  mourn  ;  that  the  tears  which  were 
shed  were  the  tears  of  strangers  ;  or  that  per- 
haps he  was  laid  to  rest  with  none  to  weep  at 
his  grave.  I  seem  like  a  soHtary  tree  standing 
after  the  other  trees  of  the  forest  have  been  cut 
down  ;  like  a  solitary  star  trembling  amidst  the 
wastes  of  night,  the  other  stars  being  covered 
with  sackcloth  and  gloom. 

Is  our  sadness  more  deep,  when  a  friend  is 
buried  on  a  dreary  day  in  winter^  or  during  a 
"pleasant  day  in  summer  ?  It  is  my  impression 
thsit people  generally  have  their  sorrow  deepened 
when  a  friend  is  buried  on  a  cold  wintry  day. 
The  gloom  of  nature  is  added  to  the  gloom  of 
the  mind,  and  the  mind  feels  how  sad  it  is  to 
carry  one  away  to  the  place  of  burial  under 
such  circumstances.  Our  tender  love  to  the 
dead  on  the  one  hand,  and  the  wild  desolate 
storm  without  on  the  other,  wring  the  heart. 


180  Sorrow. 

As  the  wind   and   the  snow  beat  against   us 
while  we    are  on  the  way  to   the   grave,  we 
think  the  more  intently  of  the  departed,  and 
heave  forth  a  longer  and  heavier  sigh.  A  fune- 
ral at  sea,  with  the  sea  and  wind  raging  most 
fiercely,  must  be  exceedingly  dreary.     A  corpse 
left  in  a  dark,  deep  mine,  or  rudely  thrust  into 
a  hole,  is  very  saddening.     That  we  want  to 
deal  tenderly  even  with  the  dead  hody  is  cer- 
tainly a  characteristic  of  refined  natures.     We 
hft  it  with  the  greatest  care  ;  and  if,  through 
some  mistake,  it  slips  from  the  hands  and  falls 
to  the  ground,  we  feel  pained.     The  idea  even 
of  a  rough  man  making  a  coffin,  and  rough  men 
carrying  that  coffin  to  the  grave,  is  not  pleasant. 
If  we  had  a  young  child  to  be  buried,  we  should 
want  that  child  borne  to  its  last  resting-place 
by  boys  that  were  quiet  and  kind.     If  carriages 
in  a  funeral  procession  are  driven  onward  with 
great  speed,  we   are   shocked  in.  our   minds. 
Even  to  throw  the  earth  down  upon  the  coffin 
in   a  violent   manner,  jars  our  feelings.     The 
truth  is,  we  want  gentleness  and  pleasantness 
in  connection  with  the  dead.     Hence  a  beauti- 
ful day  in  summer  is  more  agreeable  to  the  be- 
reaved mind,  than  a  dreary  day  in  winter. 
I  am  aware,  however,  that  there  are  a  class 


Sorrow  and  Death.  181 

of  thoughtful  persons  whose  sorrow  is  really  in- 
tensified by  a  day  vhat  is  serene  and  charming. 
De  Quincey  was  one  of  this  class.  ''  I  have  had 
occasion  to  remark,"  he  tells  us,  "at  various 
periods  of  my  life,  that  the  deaths  of  those  whom 
we  love,  and,  indeed,  the  contemplation  of 
death  generally,  is  (other  things  being  equal) 
more  affecting  in  summer  than  in  any  other 
season  of  the  year.  And  the  reasons  are  these 
three,  I  think  :  first,  that  the  visible  heavens  in 
summer  appear  far  higher,  more  distant,  and, 
(if  such  a  solecism  may  be  excused,)  more  infi- 
nite ;  the  clouds  by  which  chiefly  the  eye  ex- 
pounds the  distance  of  the  blue  pavilion 
stretched  over  our  heads,  are  in  summer  more 
voluminous,  massed,  and  accumulated  in  far 
grander  and  more  towering  piles ;  secondly,  the 
light  and  the  appearances  of  the  declining  and 
the  setting  sun  are  much  more  fitted  to  be  types 
and  characters  of  the  infinite  :  and  thirdly, 
(which  is  the  main  reason,)  exuberant  and 
riotous  prodigality  of  life  naturally  forces  the 
mind  more  powerfully  upon  the  antagonist 
thought  of  death,  and  the  wintry  sterility  of  the 
grave.  For  it  may  be  observed,  generally, 
that  wherever  two  thoughts  stand  related  to 
each  other  by  a  law  of  antagonism,  and  exist 


182  Sorrow. 

as  it  were,  by  mutual  repulsion,  they  are  apt  to 
suggest  each  other.  On  these  accounts  it  is 
that  I  find  it  impossible  to  banish  the  thought 
of  death  when  I  am  walking  alone  in  the  end- 
less days  of  summer  ;  and  any  particular  death, 
if  not  more  affecting,  at  least  haunts  my  mind 
more  obstinately  and  besiegingly,  in  that  sea- 
son.'"^ 

The  art  and  shoiu  that  sometimes  connect 
themselves  withfunerals  are  distasteful  to  a  sad 
spirit  that  is  pure  and  refined.  The  least  ves- 
tige of  ostentation  runs  counter  to  unmixed 
sorrow.  If  we  see  friends  anxious  to  make  a 
grand  impression  with  reference  to  the  dead 
and  with  reference  to  themselves,  we  turn  away 
with  loathing  j  conscious  in  our  own  minds 
that  if  the  sorrow  was  pure  and  simple  it  would 
lose  itself  in  the  lost  object,  there  being  no  heart 
to  make  capital  out  of  a  matter  so  sacred  as 
death.  Too  much  publicity  is  an  evil :  it  does 
not  match  with  the  retiring  nature  of  grief. 
The  attempt  that  is  sometimes  made  to  have  a 
large  number  attend  a  funeral,  and  the  select- 
ing of  the  Sabbath  as  the  most  suitable  day  for 
that    purpose,    is    a   species    of    vanity   that 

*  Confessions  of  an  Opium-Eater,  p.  1 20. 


SoRKOW  AND  Death.  183 

strangely  contrasts  with  the  sorrow  and  solem- 
nity of  death.  John  Fostej.  in  requesting  a 
minister  to  officiate  at  the  funeral  of  his  wife, 
thus  states  his  feelings:  *'I  am  perfectly  sure 
that  the  dear  deceased  would  have  earnestly 
deprecated  any  marked  reference  to  her  /  and  as 
to  the  survivors,  all  of  them,  and  myself  espe- 
cially— I  need  not  say  you  can  perfectly  uuder- 
stand  that  it  is  a  sorrow  that  seeks  privacy, 
earnestly  shrinks  from  public  gaze  and  cui'ios- 
ity.  But  for  the  consideration  of  what  is  con- 
ventionally regarded  as  due  on  such  an  occa- 
sion, my  own  preference — I  may  say  infinite 
preference — would  be  that  it  were  an  office 
performed  at  midnight,  in  perfect  silence  and 
with  no  attendance  but  that  of  the  parties  im- 
mediately concerned.  The  vulgarizing  curios- 
ity, what  will  be  said  of  the  deceased — how 
the  survivors  comport  themselves,  whether  they 
appeared  distressed  or  stoical — which  of  them 
the  most  or  least — and  all  the  other  circum- 
stances of  the  occasion — are  repugnant  and 
irksome  in  the  last  degree."*  In  the  matter 
of  eulogizing  the  dead, — that  is  certainly  car- 
ried to  an  extreme  at  present.     In  many  of 

*  Life  and  Correspondence,  vol.  ii.  p.  146. 


184  Sorrow. 

our  funeral  addresses,  it  is  difficult  for  a  nearer 
to  ascertain  whether  any  distinction  is  made 
between  the  righteous  and  the  wicked, — all 
are  good  at  death.  With  reference  to  most  men 
who  disappear  from  the  stage  of  life,  it  is  best 
to  say  nothing.  The  Bible  is  remarkable  for 
its  silence  respecting  the  dead ;  remarkable  that 
it  praises  men  so  little,  whether  Hving  or  dead. 
Adam  and  Eve  died,  but  nothing  is  mentioned 
respecting  their  fate.  Even  the  wisest  king  of 
Israel  enters  eternity  with  a  cloud  around  him. 
The  greatest  prophets  and  priests  died,  but  we 
read  of  no  eulogies  being  pronounced  over  their 
remains.  There  is  no  reference  to  a  funeral 
sermon  in  any  part  of  the  Divine  Writings. 
There  are  times  when  to  us  it  would  seem 
proper  to  preach, — as  when  John  and  Stephen 
died, — ^but  a  significant  silence  is  all  that 
speaks  to  the  soul.  An  approach  to  the  Bible 
method  would  be  an  improvement.  A  simple 
prayer  offered  up  to  the  great  Searcher  and 
Strenglhener  of  hearts,  and  a  few  words  of 
counsel  addressed  to  living  men,  are  all  that  is 
requisite  when  one  dies. 

When  we  think  of  the  last  words  of  a  dying 
friend  we  feel  sad.  These  last  words  are  sacred. 
They  are  treasured  up  with  love.     They  seem  . 


SoKKOW  AND  Death.  185 

to  bear  the  image  of  the  departed,  and  so  we 
keep  them  near  the  heart.  A  wayward  son 
will  tell  with  tears  what  his  mother  said  to  him 
before  she  died.  Even  the  last  letter  that  a 
Mend  ever  wrote  to  ns  will  be  preserved  v/ith 
care,  and  will  be  read  again  and  again  with  sad 
interest.  Sometimes  a  poor  man  will  shuply 
smile  before  dying,  just  as  Alpine  flowers  will 
burst  forth  while  the  snow  is  yet  upon  the 
ground,  heralds  of  approaching  spring.  We 
remember  the  smile  with  an  interest  that  al- 
most equals  that  which  centres  in  last  words. 
Even  the  reciprocated  pressure  of  the  hand, 
and  the  opening  of  the  eyes  before  they  were 
closed  forever,  will  be  remembered  and  men- 
tioned with  love.  The  same  is  true  whether 
sounds  of  joy  or  sorrow  fall  upon  our  ea,r  as 
one  is  passing  through  the  gates  of  death. 

The  last  words  of  Christ  were,  "Father,  into 
thy  hands  I  commend  my  spirit."  Many  of  the 
martyrs  repeated  the  prayer  of  the  first  martyr, 
''  Lord  Jesus,  receive  my  spirit.^'  The  last 
words  of  Jerome  of  Prague  were,'*  Lord  God, 
have  pity  on  me,  forgive  my  sins,  for  thou 
knowest  I  have  sincerely  loved  thee."  While 
Bradford  was  burning  at  the  stake  he  was 
heard  to  utter  these  last  words  :   "Be  of  good 


186  Sorrow. 

comfort,  brother  ;   for  we  shall  have  a  happy 
supper  with  the  Lord  this  night."     John  Val- 
entine Andrea  was  silent  after  he  uttered  this 
sentence  :     "It  is  our  joy  that  our  names   are 
written   in  the   Book   of    Life."     During  the 
closing  moments  of  President  Edwards'  earthly 
career,  "as  some  persons  who   stood    by  were 
lamenting  his  death,  not  only  as  a  great  frown 
on  the  college,  but  as  having  a  dark  aspect  on 
the  interest  of  religion  in  general,  to  their  sur- 
prise, not  imagining  that  he  heard,  or  ever  would 
speak  another  word,  he  said,  *  Trust  in   Grod 
and  ye  need  not  fear.'  "     A  St  ending  was  this 
to  so  great  a  life.     Sir  James  Macintosh  being 
risked  by  his  daughter  how  he  felt,  answered, 
"Happy."     That  was  his  last  word.     Andrew 
Fuller  in  his  weakness  said,  "Help  me."     Af- 
ter that  short  prayer  he  spoke  not  again.     The 
last  words  of  John  Mason  Good  were,  "Who 
taketh  away  the  sins  of  the  world."     About 
two  hours    before  Yinet  expired  he   said,   "I 
can  think   no   longer."     These  were   his   last 
words.       "  Neander,    having  by   the    aid    of 
friendly  hands  stretched  himself  in  bed  for  his 
last  slumber,  whispered  in  a  tone  of  inexpressi- 
ble  tenderness,    which   sent  a   strange    thrill 
through    every    heart :    *  Good    night.' "     He 


Sorrow  and  Death.  187 

said  no  more  after  that  pleasant  farewell.  I 
have  read  of  a  soldier  who  breathed  forth  the 
word  ''  mother,"  and  then  died  ;  of  a  child  who 
said  ''mamma/'  and  then  fell  asleep.  A  single 
word  or  sentence  becomes  in  this  way  a  legacy 
to  the  soul. 

It  is  very  natural  to  lament  and  soliloquize 
after  one  is  dead.  In  various  parts  of  the 
writings  of  Ossian  we  notice  such  tendencies. 
Take  this  passage:  "How  many  lie  there  of 
my  heroes !  the  chiefs  of  Erin's  race !  they  that 
were  cheerful  in  the  hall,  when  the  sounds  of 
the  shells  arose !  No  more  shall  I  find  their 
steps  in  the  heath.  No  more  shall  I  hear  their 
voice  in  the  chase.  Pale,  silent,  low  on  blood}^ 
beds  are  they  who  were  my  friends!  0  spirits 
of  the  lately  dead,  meet  Cathullin  on  his  heath ! 
Speak  to  him  on  the  wind,  when  the  rustling 
tree  of  Tm^a's  cave  resounds.  There,  far  re- 
mote, I  shall  lie  unknown.  No  bard  shall  hear 
of  me.  No  gray  stone  shall  rite  to  my  renown."* 

A  mind  excited  with  sorrowful  emotion  will 
sometimes  apostrophize  the  departed.  If  one 
has  died  during  the  early  years  of  life,  fully 
prepared,  the  afflicted  parent  may  be  prompted 
thus  to  express  his  feelings  :  My  child,  thou  art 

*  Fingal,  Book  IIL 


188  SOBROW. 

no  more.  Thou  hast  gone  to  another  land 
Thy  words  fall  not  upon  mine  ear.  Thy  coun- 
tenance gladdens  me  not.  I  think  of  thy  com- 
ing, and  expect  to  see  thee  enter  and  take  thy 
seat  as  on  other  days,  but  thou  enterest  not. 
For  weeks  and  months  thy  spirit  was  gentle 
before  it  went  away.  I  think  of  thy  beautiful 
life.  How  it  speaks  to  me.  I  cannot  help  but 
weep  when  I  see  my  sin,  remembering  thy  pu- 
rity. There  was  a  serenity  about  thee,  while  I 
am  full  of  care.  Child,  thou  hast  been  greater 
to  me  than  all  teachers,  better  than  all  friends. 
Surely  thou  wert  washed  in  the  fountain  of 
God,  that  thou  mightest  be  clean  among  the 
angels  who  never  fell.  I  watched  thee  when 
thou  wert  dying.  I  spoke  to  thee,  but  thou 
didst  not  hear.  Thou  hadst  gone  so  far  into 
the  valley  that  my  words  reached  thee  not.  T 
saw  thee  breathe  thy  last.  Thou  seemed  to  be 
in  a  sleep.  Dreaming  perhaps  of  father  and 
mother,  thou  didst  leave  thy  home  ;  dreaming 
it  may  be  of  heaven,  the  Shepherd  of  eternity 
took  thee  away.  No  evil  has  darkened  thy 
spirit  since  thou  hast  been  with  God.  Well  is 
it  with  thee.  In  the  midst  of  an  infinite  life 
thou  art  living.  Joys  that  have  no  end  fill  thy 
soul,  and  the  rest  that  is  everlasting  is  thine. 


Sorrow  and  Death.  189 

Precious  to  me  is  heaven  since  thou  hast  gone 
there.  How  eagerly  I  long  to  see  thee.  Meet 
thy  father  when  he  comes  to  the  land  where 
thou  dwellest.  Soon  we  shall  be  together. 
Long  shall  we  abide  in  peace. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

THE  MAN  OF  SORBOWS. 

ONE  holy  being  at  least  has  been  sorrowful. 
There  is  no  other  historic  instance  of  the 
kind.  Whether  angels  and  glorified  men  are  ever 
moved  with  an  exalted  sadness  we  know  not. 
"We  cannot  say  absolutely  that  the  whole  realm 
of  pure  spirits  is  free  from  a  pure  sorrow,  be- 
cause if  one  sinless  person  has  been  touched 
with  grief,  why  may  not  others  be  ?  There  is 
certainly  no  constitutional  difficulty  in  the  way. 
We  must  admit  that  all  pure  beings  are  capa- 
ble of  exercising  the  feeling  of  pity ;  and  does 
not  pity  contain  the  ingredient  of  sorrow  ?  As 
far  as  men  are  concerned,  the  pity  which  they 
manifest  is  tinged  with  sadness  ;  and  as  it  re- 
spects Christ,  his  love  was  anointed  with  sor- 
row. Even  if  ^^^  were  to  view  Christ  as  having 
no  connection  with  redemption,  I  do  not  imagine 
that  that  would  destroy  the  nature  of  his  feel- 


The  Man  of  Sorrows.  191 

ings.  It  is  simply  prohaUe,  then,  without  being 
certain,  that  angels  and  glorified  men  sigh  over 
the  fallen  when  they  think  about  them  ;  for,  as 
it  respects  their  own  pure  condition,  no  feeling 
of  sadness  can  spring  out  of  it.  What  shall  we 
say  now  touching  the  Supreme  Being?  Is 
there  such  a  thing  as  divine  sorrow?  We  have 
quite  a  strong  conviction  that  God  cannot  suf- 
fer. Infinite  perfection  seems  to  us  to  exclude 
suffering  from  the  divine  nature.  And  yet, 
whether  there  be  or  not  a  tender  and  beautiful 
sadness  in  the  Deity,  it  is  very  difficult  to  set- 
tle. As  far  as  many  parts  of  the  Bible  are 
concerned,  and  many  of  our  sermons,  hymns, 
and  prayers,  they  go  upon  the  supposition  that 
there  is  a  phase  of  sorrow  coimected  with  God's 
love.  Whether  all  this  is  merely  a  humanistic 
style  of  speech  is  a  question.  It  is  quite  evident 
that  there  is  great  need  of  a  mature  philosophy 
of  the  divine  emotions. 

Christ  had  a  degree  of  sorrow  from  the  fact 
that  he  was  living  in  a  strange  land.  There 
was  nothing  here  that  matclied  his  wonderful 
nature.  I  think  the  idea  of  strangeness  went 
with  the  Saviour  all  the  way  through  life.  1 
can  ahnost  imagine  that  even  when  he  was  an 
infant  he  had  dreams  of  another  land.     There 


192  Sorrow. 

must  have  been  something  exceedhigly  singular 
about  the  childhood  of  Jesus.  Here  was  a 
plant  growing  in  a  foreign  soil.  It  would  seem 
as  if  the  roots  must  have  twinged  and  turned 
themselves  upward,  when  the  surrounding  earth 
was  felt  to  be  so  different  from  that  of  heaven. 
Sunlight  fell  upon  the  leaves,  not  the  same  as 
that  which  is  wont  to  touch  the  flowers  of  Para- 
dise, and  the  dew  that  settled  there  was  not 
like  that  which  descended  upon  the  hill  of  God. 
Was  there  not  a  something  about  Jesus  when 
a  child  which  marked  him  off  from  all  other 
children;  so  that  a  close  observer  could  see 
that  he  belonged  to  another  race?  Although 
he  grew  up  in  N"azareth,  that  place  did  not 
meet  his  wants.  Its  people  could  not  fit  the 
taste  and  tendency  of  his  soul.  It  must  there- 
fore have  appeared  to  him  like  a  foreign  city. 
Even  his  mother  was  not  to  him,  as  the  mothers 
of  other  children  are  to  them.  There  was  no 
doubt  a  strangeness  that  showed  itself  in  differ- 
ent ways,  which  we  cannot  very  well  express. 
As  he  advanced  in  years,  I  do  not  think  that 
the  strangeness  of  his  existence  became  less ;  it 
rather  increased.  He  began  to  see  things  with 
greater  distinctness.  Singled  out  by  himself, 
he  seemed  like  a  new  star  shining  in  our  sky,— 


The  Man  of  Sorrows.  193 

a  world  of  light  that  had  burst  forth  amidst  the 
darkness  of  time.  Most  remarkable  words  fall 
from  the  lips  of  Jesus.  For  mstance  these: 
"Ye  are  of  this  world ;  I  am  not  of  this  world." 
"Before  Abraham  was,  I  am."  "I  speak  that 
which  I  have  seen  with  my  Father."  "  I  came 
out  from  Grod."  We  do  not  wonder  that  the 
person  who  could  thus  speak  felt  strange  among 
us.  Something  like  weariness  possessed  him. 
In  his  own  land  it  was  the  summer  of  God  : 
here  it  was  the  winter  of  man.  What  solitudes 
of  thought  and  feeling  must  have  moved  through 
the  soul  of  Jesus !  then  wandering  away  as  it 
were  to  the  great  regions  of  life  ;  echoing  as 
they  went  like  the  solemn  chant  of  sadness. 
There  is  a  passage  which  is  quite  striking ;  it 
seems  to  contain  an  eternal  thought.  The  gos- 
pel writer  says:  "Looking  up. to  heaven,  he 
sighedy  We  picture  to  ourselves  an  exalted 
stranger  living  among  men,  who  ever  and  nnon 
turns  his  face  towards  the  world  from  which  he 
came,  and  sighs.  The  loneliness  of  Jesus  is 
sad.  It  is  as  if  an  evening  broke  in  upon  the 
day  of  heaven,  and  the  city  of  God  were  dimly 
seen,  and  the  mountains  of  eternity  were  gather- 
ing blackness,  and  the  harpers  were  all  at  rest ; 
so  that  in  the  temple  of  the  Highest  One  no 


194  SoiiKOW. 

song  of  praise  ascended,  and  no  tread  of  priest 
or  king  echoed  on  any  ear. 

There  must  have  been  sorrow  in  the  mind  of 
Christ  from  the  fact  that  he  had  to  face  so  much 
evil.  Imperfection  and  disharmony  were  all 
about  him :  his  fine  dehcate  nature  shrunk  back. 
We  are  to  remember  that  the  soul  of  Jesus  was 
complete.  He  was  not  merely  innocent ;  holi- 
ness had  wrought  itself  into  his  being ;  he  had 
become  one  great  habit  of  goodness.  He  did 
not  grow  from  sin  to  holiness,  but  from  purity 
to  purity ;  so  that  his  character  had  great 
strength  and  finish  about  it.  The  texture  of 
his  heart  was  of  the  finest  material.  His  whole 
being  was  sensitive.  We  might  imagine  flow- 
ers growing  in  the  air ;  fine  ethereal  flowers  ; 
having  a  beauty  and  perfume  which  the  angels 
only  can  detect  when  they  come  among  us.  So 
all  about  Christ  were  graces  which  only  heavenly 
beings  could  see.  The  very  atmosphere  of  his 
soul  was  love.  There  was  nothing  in  him, 
therefore,  that  could  affiliate  with  evil.  He 
found  no  kindred  mind  to  commune  with.  He 
was  alone  in  the  midst  of  a  world  of  transgres- 
sors. He  seemed  to  suffer  punishment  by  the 
very  conditions  of  his  earthly  life.  Let  any 
one  of  us  be  compelled  to  live  among  a  most 


The  Man  of  Soerows.  195 

abandoned  people,— profane  swearers,  drunk- 
ards, thieves,  cut-throats, — would  there  not  be  a 
pain  of  soul,  and  a  longing  for  a  better  place  ? 
There  can  be  no  question  about  it.  Even 
when  we  are  living  in  what  seems  pleasant  cir- 
cumstances, the  better  nature  sighs  for  a  pure 
land,  where  evil  and  evil  men  shall  never  come, 
and  the  taint  of  sin  shall  affect  no  heart.  This 
idea  of  being  pained  with  evil,  may  be  the 
spring  of  a  great  deal  of  the  motions  and 
movings  of  good  men  in  this  life.  There  is 
evidently  at  the  centre  of  pious  souls  a  thought 
and  a  picture  of  a  divine  land  ;  a  country 
where  the  sky  is  without  a  cloud,  and  the 
people  that  live  there  without  a  stain.  This 
vision  of  a  paradise  yet  to  be  gained,  beckons 
the  spirit  away  to  its  joy  and  its  life,  making 
the  heart  sick  of  the  evil  that  now  is.  If  this 
be  the  case  with  good  souls  when  in  the 
midst  of  quite  favorable  circumstances,  how 
must  the  Sinless  One  have  been  pained  when 
he  was  always  surrounded  with  moral  death  ! 
To  the  eye  of  Jesus  the  deformities  of  men  all 
came  out.  A  revelation  of  sin  in  all  its  phases 
must  have  been  exceedingly  distasteful.  He 
recoiled  from  it  with  the  quick  instinctive  move- 
ment  of  his  holy  heart. 


196  Sorrow. 

Much  of  the  sorrow  of  Christ  is  to  be  traced 
to  the  working  of  his  sympathetic  nature.  His 
sympathies  were  exceedingly  refined  and  grqat. 
He  beheld  our  sorrow  at  once  :  he  felt  it ;  his 
soul  carried  it.  He  seemed  to  have  gone 
through  a  kind  of  second  incarnation  ;  entering 
as  it  were  into  the  very  nature  of  each  soul ;  re- 
producing in  himself  the  sad  experience  of  mor- 
tals. His  spirit  sighed  in  view  of  the  absolute 
weakness  of  men.  Their  sufferings  affected  his 
heart.  He  beheld  them  seeking  for  rest,  and 
failing  to  find  it.  Each  moment  some  one  died. 
He  gazed  at  the  constant  procession  of  death. 
Night  and  day  through  all  the  years  it  was  pass- 
ing. Each  second  of  time  a  human  heart  was 
bleeding.  The  tear  was  always  falling.  Then  the 
whole  race  were  lost.  This  agitated  his  soul 
more  than  all  things  else.  He  felt  the  great- 
ness of  their  woe.  Their  collective  evils 
reached  his  soul.  He  sunk  in  anguish.  He 
was  lost  for  them.  ''  Herein  is  involved  the 
deep  thought,"  remarks  Dorner,  "  that  love 
to  what  is  below  it  has  a  mediatory  significance, 
which  puts  itself  on  an  equality  with  the  hum- 
ble in  the  spirit  of  sympathy,  without  at  the 
same  time  renouncing  itself."  * 

*  Doct.  of  the  Person  of  Christ,  vol.  iv.  p.  339. 


The  Man  of  Sorrows.  197 

Therfi  is  one  thing  about  the  sorrow  of  Christ 
which  is  of  great  importance — it  was  connected 
with  strong  judicial  emotion.  The  God-man 
had  an  idea  of  demei^it  that  makes  our  idea  to 
seem  as  nothing.  That  sin  is  merely  an  im- 
perfection, an  error,  a  disease,  a  misfortune, 
found  no  place  in  his  mind.  Sin  and  guilt 
have  an  unchangeable  connection ;  so  also 
have  guilt  and  punishment.  That  justice  has 
rights,  Christ  knew  full  well ;  that  it  could  not 
be  sustained  without  intense  suffering,  he  felt 
in  the  very  centre  of  his  being.  The  idea  of 
the  wrath  of  God  was  to  him  a  reality.  It  was 
because  of  the  vigor  of  his  judicial  emotions 
that  he  sorrowed  so  deeply.  Minds  that  do  not 
quiver  under  the  ministration  of  justice  have 
a  sorrow  that  is  exceedingly  superficial  and 
sentimental.  There  seems  to  be  a  want  of  ca- 
pacity at  the  present  time  to  comprehend  the 
nature  of  Christ's  sorrow.  The  word  love, 
with  vast  numbers,  represents  what  seems  like 
a  tender  and  beautiful  weakness  ;  something 
for  poets  to  sing  about  and  effeminate  writers 
to  praise  ;  whilst  justice  is  merely  the  harsh 
feature  of  a  theology  that  is  now  obsolete. 
Christ  did  have  tenderness,  compassion,  meek- 
ness and  gentleness,  in  full  perfection  ;  yet  he 


198  Soiiiiow. 

also  had  righteousness,  moral  abhorrence,  in- 
dignation, and  judicial  severity.  Jesus  was 
the  embodiment  of  all  true  emotion.  "  In 
him  is  justice  satisfied  in  its  severities,  and 
mercy  in  its  indulgences.  The  riches  of  grace 
are  twisted  with  the  terrors  of  wrath.  The 
bowels  of  mercy  are  wound  about  the  flaming 
sword  of  justice,  and  the  sword  of  justice  pro- 
tects and  secures  the  bowels  of  mercy.  Thus 
is  God  righteous  without  being  cruel,  and  mer- 
ciful without  being  unjust."  * 

Christ  must  always  have  had  a  heaviness 
of  spirit  from  the  fact  that  the  evils  which 
were  to  assail  him  were  all  seen  beforehand. 
There  is  a  striking  minuteness  in  the  following 
passage  :  "  The  Son  of  man  shall  be  delivered 
unto  the  chief  priests,  and  unto  the  scribes  ; 
and  they  shall  condemn  him  to  death,  and 
shall  deliver  him  to  the  Gentiles  :  and  they 
shall  mock  him,  and  shall  scourge  him,  and 
shall  spit  upon  him,  and  shall  kill  him."  By  a 
prophetic  hand  the  volume  of  woe  was  written, 
and  he  was  compelled  to  read  each  sentence. 
The  darkness  of  the  future  deepened  into  the 
darkness  of  the  present.     The  shadow  of  death 

*  Charnock,  The  Attributes  of  God,  vol.  i.  p.  567. 


The  Man  of  Sorrows.  199 

fell  upon  his  spirit.  I  seem  to  hear  his  groans, 
and  the  wail  of  his  oppressed  nature.  As  I 
look  and  listen,  I  bow  my  head  in  sympathy  : 
I  suffer  with  his  pain,  and  am  saddened  with 
the  sadness  of  his  soul.  His  journey  is  not 
that  of  other  men.  Whatever  the  path  he 
takes  it  leads  to  Calvary.  Indeed  I  cannot 
think  of  him  save  as  carrying  a  cross.  There 
is  a  death  in  the  very  midst  of  his  life.  The 
cup  of  sorrow  was  not  left  standing  at  the  end 
of  his  path.  He  drank  it  as  he  went  along. 
It  was  evermore  filled  and  evermore  emptied  as 
the  hours  passed.  Where  is  the  man  that 
could  bear  a  revelation  of  the  evils  through 
which  he  must  go  during  a  lifetime  ?  Would 
not  our  souls  be  in  one  continual  agony,  if  the 
calamities  we  are  to  meet  and  the  miseries  we 
are  to  endure,  were  all  made  known  to  us  be- 
forehand ?  There  are  persons  who  really  suf- 
fer more  by  anticipation  than  they  do  by  ac- 
tual contact  with  the  evil  which  they  fear. 
There  can  be  no  question,  then,  that  Christ 
had  to  go  through  life  with  a  dart  transfixed 
in  his  soul.  What  significance  is  locked  up  in 
such  a  verse  as  this — **I  have  a  baptism  to  be 
baptized  with  ;  and  how  am  I  straitened  tUl  it 
be  accomphshed !"     The  soul  seems  to  stagger 


200  SOBROW. 

under  some  great  weight ;  hemmed  in  by  some 
great  woe. 

There  is  another  thought,  namely  this,  that 
the  divine  man  assumed  what  may  be  called 
atoning  obligation^  which  atoning  obligation 
was  gainful.  The  position  of  the  Redeemer  in 
the  universe  was  entirely  unlike  that  of  any 
other  being.  The  obligaiion  which  rested 
upon  him  was  different  in  Mnd  and  degree  fl'om 
that  which  rested  upon  any  created  intelligence. 
He  had  come  forth  specifically  that  he  might 
bear  the  burden  of  a  world's  sin.  The  loftiest 
spirit  of  heaven  could  not  even  think  of  this. 
The  thought  was  not  in  a  line  with  any  crea- 
turely  understanding.^  Christ  was  divine- hu- 
man ;  and  he  had  assumed  an  obligation  which 
only  a  divine- human  person  could  assume. 
And  yet  we  must  believe  also  that  the  human 
nature  of  Christ  had  a  work  to  do  and  a  suf- 
fering to  endure  which  belonged  exclusively 
to  that  nature,  and  but  for  which  it  never 
would  have  been  called  into  existence.  It  is 
a  fact  that  his  human  nature  was  racked  to  its ' 
utmost  tension  by  reason  of  the  burden  that 
pressed  upon  it.  Admitting  that  the  human  in 
Christ  was  strengthened'by  the  divine,  yet,  the 
point  seemed  to  be,  to  tax  the  human  to  its 


The  Man  of  Sokrows.  201 

utmost  limit.  We  do  not  see  this  wonderful 
personage  tracking  his  way  through  Palestine 
with  light  and  easy  step.  He  had  not  come  on 
a  quiet  embassy  of  reconciliation,  allowing  his 
divinity  to  lift  up  and  bear  away  with  no  great 
trouble  the  sole  burden  of  the  atonement. 
Yiewing  him  from  the  human  stand-point,  the 
thought  may  have  reached  his  mind,  What  if  I 
should  fail?  IIow  fearful  the  results  to  man 
and  the  universe  if  I  should  sink  during  some 
trying  moment!  willing  at  such  a  moment  to 
let  redemption  go,  the  price  demanded  being 
altogetlier  too  great.  Obligation  which  well 
nigh  overwhehned  him  is  seen  in  his  prayer — 
"Father,  if  it  be  possible,  let  this  cup  pass  from 
me."  He  even  says  to  his  disciples,  "Tarry  ye 
here,  and  watch  with  me  f  craving  in  the 
depth  of  his  distress  the  aid  and  sympathy  of 
weak  mortals!  This  touch  of  human  nature 
only  reveals  the  intense  anguish  of  the  Saviour's 
mind. 

"  In  the  gardens  of  the  Carthusian  Convent, 
which  the  Dukes  of  Burgundy  built  near  Dijon 
for  the  burial-place  of  their  race,  is  a  beautiful 
monument,  which  alone  of  that  splendid  edifice 
escaped  the  ravages  of  the  French  Revolution. 
It  consists  of  a  group  of  Prophets  and  Kings 


202  SoKEow. 

from  the  Old  Testament,  each  holdmg  in  his 
hand  a  scroll  of  moiirning  from  his  writings — 
each  with  his  own  individual  costume,  and  ges- 
ture, and  look — each  distinguislied  from  each 
by  the  most  marked  peculiarity  of  age  and 
character,  absorbed  in  the  thoughts  of  his  own 
time  and  country.  But  above  these  figures  is 
a  circle  of  angels,  as  Hke  each  to  each  as  the 
human  figures  are  unlike.  They,  too,  as  each 
overhangs  and  overlooks  the  Prophets  below 
him,  are  saddened  with  grief.  But  their  ex- 
pression of  sorrow  is  far  deeper  and  more 
intense  than  that  of  the  Prophets  whose  words 
they  read.  They  see  something  in  the  Pro- 
phetic sorrow  which  the  Prophets  themselves 
see  not :  they  are  lost  in  the  contemplation 
of  the  Divine  Passion,  of  which  the  ancient 
saints  below  them  are  but  the  unconscious 
and  indirect  exponents."^*  It  would  seem  as 
if  all  the  sorrow  of  godly  men  was  a  kind  of 
prophecy  of  the  wonderful  sorrow  of  the  Son 
of  God.  The  great  tragedy  is  that  of  the 
cross. 

It  is  not  unlikely  that  Christ,  in  a  literal  sense^ 
died  of  a  hrohen  heart     There  is  every  reason 

*  Stanley,  Hist,  of  the  Jewieh  Church,  vol.  ii.  p.  12. 


The  Man  of  Sorrows.  203 

for  thinking  that  he  suffered  intense  pain  of 
soul  during  his  last  moments,  apart  from  the 
pain  of  crucifixion.  I  imagine  that  his  great 
culminating  sorrow  is  echoed  forth  in  that 
startling  cry — "My  God,  my  God,  why  hast 
thou  forsaken  me  ?^'  This  mental  agony  may 
have  been  so  great  that  it  really  ruptured  his 
heart.  Why  also  he  should  be  found  dead  so 
soon  upon  the  cross, — a  thing  quite  unusual, 
and  which  even  startled  Pilate, — and  why  water 
as  well  as  blood  should  flow  forth  from  the  side 
that  was  pierced  by  the  soldier's  spear,  are  facts 
not  easily  explained,  except  upon  the  supposi- 
tion that  his  heart  literally  broke  by  reason  of 
the  mighty  passion  of  sorrow  which  rushed 
around  and  through  his  soul.  This  view  may 
be  correct.  If  it  is  correct,  redemptive  sorrow 
has  a  most  profound  meaning.  It  points  to  the 
very  core  of  the  atonement.  Body  and  soul 
together  were  yielded  up  as  a  sacrifice.  Divine 
justice  and  human  guilt  could  only  thus  be  pa- 
cified. 

There  is  something  very  precious  in  being 
permitted  to  sorrow  with  Christ.  That  we 
should  be  allowed  to  approach  him  in  any  way, 
allowed  to  walk  in  the  track  of  his  pain  and  to 
touch  the  footprints  of  his  grief,  is  an  exalted 


204  Sorrow. 

privilege.  Sorrow  is  forever  sacred,  inasmuch 
as  he  felt  it.  Our  burden  seems  lighter  when 
we  think  of  his,  and  the  clouds  that  overhang 
us  are  not  so  black  when  we  know  of  the  dark- 
ness of  God  that  surrounded  him.  That  we 
should  be  weary  with  an  inward  woe  is  nothing 
to  the  heart-sadness  of  him  who  may  fitly  be 
styled  the  great  Sorrower  of  men.  Sorrow 
glistened  in  his  eye,  spoke  in  his  words,  was  the 
breath  of  his  atoning  spirit,  and  the  incense  that 
ascended  to  God  with  his  prayers.  We  lose 
much  because  we  allow  our  griefs  to  be  so 
earthly  and  so  full  of  self ;  thinking  more  of 
the  pain  which  they  cause,  than  of  the  Saviour 
to  whom  they  should  lead  us.  To  suflfer  and  to 
serve  with  the  Crucified  is  to  live.  If  Christ 
had  not  sorrowed,  man  had  not  repented  with 
tears.  Penitence  is  a  passion  flower  which 
grows  only  beside  the  cross. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

TEE  SORBOW  THAT  IS  FLEA8INQ. 

IT  is  remarkable  that  both  pleasure  and  pam 
should  be  connected  with  sorrow.  That 
suffering  should  cliaracterize  grief  is  what  all 
expect ;  but  when  joy  is  seen  to  radiate  around 
it  we  are  astonished,  and  eagerly  ask  why  this 
should  be  so. 

How  are  we  to  explain  tears  of  joy?  Do 
the  tears  really  spring  from  the  joy?  The 
common  opinion  is  that  they  do.  We  call  in 
question  that  opinion.  As  well  expect  rain  to 
come  from  the  sun,  as  tears  to  come  from  joy. 
It  appears  to  us,  that  sadness  and  evil  go 
together,  just  as  pleasure  and  good  go  to- 
gether. When  a  person  in  joy  sheds  tears, 
there  is  an  object  thought  of  that  starts  the 
joy,  and  another  object  thought  of  that  starts 
the  tears.  There  are  certainly  two  different 
feelings  in  the  mind,  and  not  one  ;  two  differ- 
ent  objects   before   the   mind,    and   not   one. 


206  Sorrow. 

Here  is  a  mother  who  has  good  reason  to  think 
that  her  son  is  dead.  On  a  certain  day,  how- 
ever, he  enters  his  old  home.  The  mother  is 
astonished  and  overjoyed,  and  tears  roll  down 
her  face.  Two  feelings  have  evidently  met  to- 
gether in  the  mother's  soul,  even  as  two  clouds 
meet  together  in  the  sky.  Seeing  the  son 
alive^  she  is  joyful ;  yet  the  remembrance  of 
the  fact  that  she  thought  he  was  dead^  is  still 
with  her,  and  so  she  weeps.  A  certain  man 
has  been  confined  in  a  dungeon  for  ten  years. 
He  was  sent  to  prison  for  life  ;  yet  on  a  certain 
day  he  is  told  that  he  is  free.  He  is  happy, 
and  bursts  into  a  flood  of  tears.  The  thought 
oi  confinement  caused  the  tears  ;  the  tliought  of 
deliverance  the  joy.  Strictly  speaking,  the  tears 
are  not  tears  of  joy,  but  tears  in  connection  with 
joy.  The  experience  bears  a  resemblance  to 
a  sudden  shower  on  an  April  day, — the  sun  is 
shining,  and  yet  it  rains.  The  rain  is  from  the 
cloud  :  the  shining  light  is  from  the  sun.  When 
the  foundation  of  the  second  temple  was  laid, 
we  read  that  "some  wept  with  a  loud  voice, 
and  some  shouted  aloud  f©r  joy."  Those  that 
wept,  saw  the  inferiority  of  the  second  temple 
as  compared  with  the  first :  those  that  shouted 
aloud  for  joy,  viewed  the  second  temple  as  a 


The  Joy  of  Sokrow.  207 

superior  structure,  not  having  seen  the  first. 
If  these  two  opposite  feehngs  had  been  in  one 
man,  instead  of  in  two  classes  of  men,  they 
would  illustrate  the  point  before  us.  The  soul 
may,  in  fact,  have  more  than  two  different  feel- 
ings mingling  together  at  once.  I  may  be  dis- 
gusted, saddened,  alarmed,  and  in  part  pleased, 
at  the  same  moment  of  time.  The  mind  works 
with  a  complexity  and  quickness  that  people 
are  not  usually  aware  of 

But  not  only  does  a  man  shed  tears  of  joy 
in  view  of  his  own  mixed  condition,  he  feels  the 
same  way  in  view  of  another'' s  mixed  condition, 
Robert  Glover,  who  died  as  a  martyr  in  1555, 
thus  states  his  feelings  to  his  wife:  *'I  thank 
you  heartily,  most  loving  wife,  for  your  letters 
sent  to  me  in  my  imprisonment.  I  read  them 
with  tears,  more  than  once  or  twice ;  with  tears, 
I  say,  for  joy  and  gladness,  that  God  had 
wrought  in  you  so  merciful  a  work  ;  first,  an 
unfeigned  repentance ;  secondly,  an  humble 
and  hearty  reconciliation  ;  thirdly,  a  willing 
submission  and  obedience  to  the  will  of  God  in 
all  things.  Which  when  I  read  in  your  letters, 
and  judged  them  to  proceed  from  the  bottom 
of  your  heart,  I  could  not  but  be  thankful  to 


208  Sorrow. 

God,  rejoicing  with  tears  for  you."  *  The  joy 
of  this  man  arose  from  the  fact  that  his  wife 
had  coimnenced  a  rehgious  Hfe :  the  tears  that 
mingled  with  the  joy  were  started  by  the  re- 
membered fact  that  she  was  formerly  unrecon- 
ciled to  God.  If  I  behold  a  person  in  distress, 
and  run  to  help  him,  I  am  both  sad  and  happy. 
Sad  because  of  the  evil  that  has  befallen  him  : 
happy  because  of  the  love  which  I  manifest. 
Pity  suffers  and  loves  at  the  same  time, — it  is  a 
compound  feeling.  If  a  scene  is  acted  out  be- 
fore me  which  awakens  my  sympathies,  I  may 
shed  tears  of  joy,  because  it  is  the  nature  of 
sympathy  to  be  both  sad  and  agreeable. 

While  these  thoughts  seem  to  be  correct  as 
far  as  they  go,  I  am  convinced  that  there  is  an 
element  of  pleasure  in  certain  kinds  of  sorrow 
which  they  do  not  explain.  How  is  it  that  the 
permanent  sadness  of  the  soul  is  somewhat 
pleasant  to  that  soul  ?  Ilere  there  is  no  com- 
plex state  producing  a  complete  feeling.  I 
have  pleasure  in  simply  brooding  over  a  deep 
inward  sadness  ;  a  sadness  that  perhaps  can  be 
traced  to  no  particular  thing.  There  are  hours 
when  the  spirit  sits  spell-bound  in  the  midst 

*  Jolin  Foxe,  Acts  and  Monuments  of  the  Cimrcli,  p.  815. 


The  Joy  of  Sorrow.  209 

of  its  grief.  There  is  such  a  thing  as  a  phas- 
ing melanchohj .  Melancholy  seems  to  be  loved 
for  its  own  sake.  To  breathe  its  air,  to  hear 
the  monotony  of  its  moan,  to  sigh  in  the  midst 
of  it,  and  even  to  slied  tears  is  happiness.  All 
this  is  strange.  I  cannot  understand  it.  I 
know  of  no  one  who  has  been  able  to  explahi 
it.  I  even  find  pleasure  in  a  sorrow  whose 
cause  I  can  point  out.  Yea,  the  cause  may  be 
exceedingly  painful  to  me  when  I  think  of  it, 
yet  the  sorrow  has  some  element  of  pleasure. 
It  would  seem  as  if  sadness  were  the  offspring 
of  the  imperial  part  of  man's  nature  ;  as  if  there 
were  something  of  the  divine  about  it ;  and  that 
consequently  it  pleases.  Take  the  weariness  of 
the  soul ;  the  unrest  that  never  really  abates  ; 
the  panting  for  something  not  yet  found, — 
these  mental  states  have  all  a  sad  pleasure  con- 
nected with  them ;  they  point  also  to  that 
which  is  divine  in  man.  I  have  an  impression 
that  so  long  as  the  regal  part  of  the  human  spi- 
rit is  allowed  to  work,  it  must  furnish  some  sen- 
sations of  pleasure  in  its  working.  Strike  out 
all  the  higher  movements  of  the  soul,  and  there 
would  be  a  dead  sadness  with  no  joy. 

There  is  a  witchery  about  sorrow  that  some- 
times conducts  one  to  a  point  where  he  is  struck 


210  SOEEOW. 

with  the  dart  of  disease.  Love  of  the  melan- 
choly, when  it  goes  beyond  a  certain  Umit, 
may  be  itself  a  symptom  of  disease.  It  may 
be  the  dreamy  pleasure  of  a  weakened  nature  ! 
a  nature  that  finds  comfort  in  the  darkness 
rather  than  in  the  light.  To  be  attracted  by 
the  power  of  grief  may  seem  natural  and  easy  ; 
yet  to  sit  down  at  the  fountain  of  sorrow  and 
dwell  there  is  death.  The  reverie  of  sorrow  is 
pleasant.  We  seem  to  be  sailing  on  a  river  that 
is  partly  shaded  by  trees  on  either  side.  Through 
the  openings  that  are  between  the  trees  we  see 
hills,  and  fields,  and  distant  city  spires,  and 
clouds  of  glory  resting  on  the  bosom  of  heaven. 
The  mind  now  is  not  trammeled.  There  is 
simply  the  easy  flow  of  thought  and  emotion. 
One  feels  sad  during  the  whole  movement,  yet 
the  sadness  is  pleasant.  Tears  may  even  come 
to  the  eye  as  object  after  object  strikes  the  mind. 
They  come,  however,  almost  unconsciously. 
•The  soul  is  in  the  midst  of  a  waking  dream  ;  a 
dream  which  it  wishes  should  be  prolonged  ;  a 
dream  which  betokens  excitement  and  the 
pleasant  mastery  of  grief.  Any  one  who  has 
read  the  "  Confessions''  of  Rousseau,  will  have 
noticed  in  that  work  traces  of  the  reverie  of 
gorrow.  Take  for  instance  this  passage  : 
*'  Walkinor  alomr  these  beautiful  banks,  on 


The  Joy  of  Sokrow.  211 

my  way  to  Yevay,  I  gave  myself  up  to  the 
soft  melancholy  ;  my  heart  rushed  with  ardor 
into  a  thousand  innocent  felicities  ;  melting  to 
tenderness,  I  sighed  and  wept  like  a  child. 
How  often,  stopping  to  weep  more  at  my  ease, 
and  seated  on  a  large  stone,  did  I  amuse  my- 
self with  seeing  my  tears  drop  into  the  water."* 
All  emotional  natures  are  inclined,  now  and 
then,  to  lose  themselves  in  a  reverie  of  sorrow. 
We  have  a  pleasing  sadness  when  we  think 
of  the  pleasant  traits  and  acts  of  a  departed 
friend.  How  natural  it  is  for  the  members  of 
a  family  to  talk  to  each  other  about  all  that 
was  interesting  in  the  one  who  has  left  them. 
Certain  sayings  that  he  uttered  are  repeated 
with  pleasure.  If  he  had  a  fine  taste  with  ref- 
erence to  any  particular  thing,  we  mention  it. 
If  he  was  quite  proficient  in  any  calling,  we 
state  the  ftict.  If  he  had  any  scholastic  traits, 
these  are  noted  with  interest.  Then  if  he  had 
fine  manners,  was  gentle  and  loving,  self-deny- 
ing and  self-forgetful,  we  mention  all  these 
characteristics.  Perhaps  one  reason  why  so 
many  books  have  been  written  about  good 
children  is  found  in  the  pleasing  sadness  which 


Confessions,  p.  122.     London  ed. 


212  Sorrow. 

lias  prompted  the  mind  to  act  in  that  particu- 
lar sphere. 

There  are  sighs  of  the  soul  which  may  be 
called  pleasant.  Dante  speaks  of  "sweet 
sighs."  Such  must  be  the  breathings  of  a  sad 
spirit  when  light  and  health  touch  it.  Let  any 
brooding  anxiety  be  swept  away  from  the  mind, 
and  there  is  a  sigh  of  relief.  Let  there  be  a 
victory  gained  over  some  sin  or  sinful  passion, 
and  there  is  a  sigh  of  freedom.  If  one  is  in  the 
midst  of  great  comfort  and  is  looking  round 
upon  the  serenity  of  the  heavens  and  the  earth, 
he  may  sigh,  and  say  how  beautiful  and 
blessed  do  all  things  appear.  There  is  a  sigh 
of  compassion  and  of  peace  ;  a  sigh  in  view  of 
the  infinite  and  the  eternal  ;  a  sigh  that  arises 
because  of  the  Divine  and  the  holy, — each  of 
these  is  pleasant.  As  the  soul  finds  relief  in  a 
sigh,  so  also  it  finds  rehef  in  tears.  Augustine, 
speaking  of  the  death  of  his  mother,  says  :  "I 
gave  way  to  the  tears  which  I  before  restrained, 
to  overflow  as  much  as  they  desired  ;  reposing 
my  heart  upon  them  ;  and  it  found  rest  in 
tbem."* 

We   may  note   here   the   smile  cf  sadness, 

*  Confessions,  Book  j  IX.,  chap.  xi.  i. 


The   Joy  of  Sorrow.  213 

This  is  the  outward  expression  of  that  inward 
serenity  which  sometimes  encircles  the  sad 
spirit.  There  is  even  the  laughter  of  sorrow. 
Excitable  natures  who  have  been  happily 
surprised  in  their  grief  will  express  tliemselves 
in  this  v/ay.  Their  grief  and  gladness  alike 
tumultuate  ;  so  that  wailing  is  the  echo  of  the 
one  feeling,  and  laughter  the  echo  of  the  other. 
Such  persons  would  almost  laugh  in  their 
prayers.  What  a  significant  trait  of  human 
nature  it  is  that  we  generally  smile  when  we 
salute  people  !  The  sense  of  fitness  here  seems 
almost  instinctive.  Certainly  the  smile  comes 
without  any  elTort.  It  is  all  the  more  beautiful 
on  that  account.  Even  when  we  feel  sad,  our 
good  evening  is  gildod  with  a  smile.  I  have 
noticed,  however,  that  when  we  salute  a  person 
in  deep  sorrow,  tlie  smile  is  not  apt  to  appear. 
A  fine  sense  of  fitness  makes  known  what  is 
proper  in  such  a  case. 

It  is  to  be  observed  also  that  pensive  minds 
have  generally  a  vein  of  humor.  Burton  is 
mentioned  as  ''  a  melancholy  and  humorous 
person.''  Pascal,  as  seen  in  his  "Thoughts,"  is 
sorrowful,  while  in  his  "  Provincial  Letters,"  he 
is  humorous.  Hood,  Goldsmith,  and  Irving, 
were  also  pathetic  and  playful.     Cowper,  with 


214  Sorrow. 

all  his  dark  sadness,  had  a  vem  of  humor.  His 
"  John  Gilpin  "  is  proof  of  that.  Many  a  one  has 
been  compelled  to  "  laugli  t^ars  ''  by  listening  to 
the  recital  of  tliat  comic  ballad.  Flashes  of 
wit  and  humor  are  to  the  troubled  mind  what 
the  northern  lights  are  to  the  inhabitants  of 
the  Pole, — the  darkness  is  lessened,  and  the 
very  winter  is  made  to  dream  of  summer. 
Evidently  there  is  a  happy  prirwiple  of  cojiipen- 
sation  in  souls,  which  tends  to  mitigate  human 
sorrow.  The  imagination  has  a  morning  of 
hope  ;  the  reason  has  ideal  order  ;  the  heart 
loves  some  one  or  some  thing  ;  the  thought  of 
home  travels  with  the  exiled  spirit  in  all  its 
wanderings ;  and  eternal  htanies  ascend  to  God 
from  the  ruined  temple  v/ithin.  Even  the 
earth  upon  which  we  live  ;  the  seasons  that 
come  and  pass  away  ;  the  labors  tliat  drive  us 
onward, — all  have  a  compensatory  influence. 
Then  there  is  God,  who  may  be  called  the 
great  compensatory  Being.  Absolute  misery 
is  not  known  here.  The  infant  sleeps  on  the 
bosom  of  its  mother,  and  the  blind  sing  during 
the  night  of  their  woe. 

The  mind  has  a  pleasing  sadness  while  it  is 
engaged  in  certain  sj^eculative  inquiries.  Per- 
haps the  charm  of  spiritu*\lism  to  some  natures 


The  Joy  or  Sorrow.  215 

is  found  ill  the  tender  emotions  which  it 
awakens.  The  soul  is  thought  of  as  a  harp  ; 
a  harp  that  can  be  played  upon  by  unseen  fin- 
gers. All  inquiries  relating  to  the  dead  are 
strangely  attractive.  The  fate  of  our  friends 
on  the  other  side  of  the  river  ;  what  they  do 
there  and  what  they  think ;  whether  they  are 
as  eager  to  see  us  as  we  are  to  see  them, — such 
thoughts  spread  over  the  soul  a  pleasing  mel- 
ancholy. Even  to  speculate  about  races  of 
men  who  have  lived  upon  the  earth  and 
passed  away  from  it,  leaving  no  vestige  of  the 
language  wliich  they  spoke,  is  not  without  an 
agreeable  interest.  If  we  are  allowed  to  walk 
among  their  ruined  buildings  ;  allowed  to  dig 
amid  the  rubbish  of  fallen  temples  and  tombs  ; 
finding  it  may  be  some  tool,  idol,  or  weapon  of 
war, — in  such  a  case  there  is  both  exhilaration 
and  awe  ;  we  are  affected  like  men  in  search 
of  an  undiscovered  sea,  who,  standing  in 
silence,  catch  the  echo  of  its  waves  as  they 
break  along  a  shore  that  is  not  yet  seen.  All 
the  queries  about  a  northwest  passage  ;  about 
the  men  who  have  gone  into  eternal  winter  and 
died  ;  about  those  who  have  gone  to  search 
for  their  remain p>. — such  queries  are  wrapped 
around  with  a  kind  of  weird  pleasure.     I  have 

'   Of  THE 

'TJiriVBRSITT 


216  Sorrow. 

supposed  that  there  might  be  something  about 
geology  that  woukl  attract  us  in  the  same  way. 
Facing  the  remains  of  beings  that  hved  during 
a  dateless  past ;  looking  at  footprints  upon  the 
rocks  ;  trying  to  imagine  the  length  of  earthly 
mne. — one  both  sighs  and  wonders.  Is  not  the 
dream  of  pantheism  sad  and  pleasant  to  those 
v'ho  are  in  the  midst  of  the  dream  ?  Are  not  all 
speculative  systems  that  attempt  to  be  univer- 
sal of  this  character?  ''Gruosticism,'*  remarks 
Isaac  Taylor,  *'  all  gratuitous  as  it  was,  and  rich 
in  a  gorgeous  pneumatology,  on  this  very  ac- 
count captivated  the  meditative,  the  excursive, 
and  the  pensive  orders  of  minds  ;  because  it 
dared  to  unfold  the  upper  world,  which  could 
be  conversed  with  only  by  a  spiritual  intuition, 
disdaining  the  trammels  of  reason." 

Another  thought  bearing  upon  our  subject  is 
this^  that  if  a  sce7ie  of  sorrow  be  described,  it 
may^>/ease  us,  while  if  we  are  aUov/ed  to  look 
upon  that  scene  it  may  pain  us.  In  many  cases, 
distance  from  objects  tends  to  heighten  our 
pleasurable  feelings.  To  depend  upon  a  de- 
scription is  to  be  placed  at  a  distance  from  the 
reality.  There  are  features  of  sorrow  which, 
when  they  are  described,  simply  awaken  our 
sympathy ;  but  when  these  same  features  are 


The  Joy  of  Sohkow.  217 

seen  with  the  naked  eye  they  appall  us.  Be- 
sides, no  picture  of  wretchedness  is  complete 
in  every  particular.  It  therefore  cannot  im- 
press us  just  as  the  reality  does.  If  we  are 
reading  the  description  of  a  scene  of  sorrow, 
the  points  may  be  so  arranged  as  to  produce 
the  greatest  effect ;  some  things  being  kept  out 
purposely,  and  other  things  made  quite  promi- 
nent. The  style  also  of  the  writer  may  be  ex- 
ceedingly attractive, — the  words  may  be  full  of 
music.  Or,  if  we  are  listening  to  a  public 
speaker  who  is  using  all  his  art  to  interest  us 
in  the  scene  of  sorrow,  the  voice  comes  in  to 
affect  us,  the  manner  impresses,  the  tears  touch 
the  heart.  In  this  way  persons  may  have  a 
pleasing  sadness  from  described  sorrow,  which 
they  would  not  have  if  they  looked  upon  the 
dark  reality. 

How  very  striking  also  that  we  shrink  from 
a  person  in  great  pain;  yet  if  we  love  the  per- 
son, the  love  holds  us  to  the  painful  ohject.  If 
the  natural  tendency  to  flee  from  a  scene  of 
suffering  were  allowed  to  work  with  supreme 
power,  there  is  no  telling  how  misery  in  this 
way  would  be  increased.  It  is  a  fine  arrange- 
ment, therefore,  to  have  one  feeling  overcome 
by  another.     A  proper  balance  is  thus  kept  up 


218  Sorrow. 

in  the  soul.  Sometimes  the  moral  nature  has 
to  be  aided  by  the  instinctive,  and  then  again 
the  instinctive  nature  has  to  be  aided  by  the 
moral. 

Still  furtlier,  a  sad  ohjtici  may  be  a  source  of 
jpain  to  one,  and  a  source  of  j)^(i(^sure  to  an- 
other. If  I 'hate  a  man,  there  is  a  degree  of 
pleasure  in  seeing  him  suffer  ;  but  if  I  love 
him,  I  am  pained  because  of  the  suffering. 
Let  an  army  be  defeated,  and  all  who  are 
friendly  to  that  army  will  be  saddened ;  while 
those  who  are  opposed  to  it  will  be  joyful.  A 
child  will  take  pleasure  in  torturing,  an  insect  j 
a  man  will  have  no  feeling  of  that  kind.  In 
one  country  the  people  are  delighted  with  bull- 
baiting  ;  in  another  country  they  abhor  the 
practice.  A  question  is  raised  by  Dr.  Chal- 
mers, whether,  in  fact,  we  are  ever  really 
pleased  with  a  scene  of  suffering.  That  is, 
does  suffering  in  itself  please  us  ?  It  would . 
seem  as  if  it  did  not.  The  probability  is,  that 
it  is  something  in  connection  with  the  suffering 
that  pleases  us,  and  not  the  suffering  itself. 
The  fact  that  the  worshippers  of  Moloch  beat 
drums  that  they  might  not  hear  the  cries  of 
their  dying  children,  shows  that  it  was  not  the 
suffering  that   pleased   them,   but  rather  ohe- 


The  Joy  of  Sorrow.  219 

dience  to  their  God,  The  spectators  of  a  prize- 
fight are  not  charmed  by  the  mere  sight  of 
wounds  and  blood.  They  want  to  see  manifes- 
tations of  skill  and  pluck,  and  whether  their 
favorite  man  will  come  off  conqueror  or  not. 
The  young  surgeon  v/ho  rejoices  that  he  is 
called  upon  to  amputate  a  man's  limb,  does 
not  rejoice  because  of  the  suffering,  but  rather 
because  he  has  opportunity  of  becoming  pro- 
ficient in  his  art,  or  because  of  some  other 
motive  that  may  be  present  to  his  mind.  Sym- 
pathy, in  view  of  distress,  and  not  delight  on 
account  of  it,  is  the  natural  feeling  of  the 
soul. 

*'Upon  inquiry  into  the  education  of  butch- 
ers, it  will  be  found,  that,  instead  of  receiving 
aid  from  any  original  law  of  nature  in  their 
bosoms,  by  which  the  pain  of  another  was  fol- 
lowed up  with  pleasure  in  oneself — that,  in- 
stead of  this,  all  the  relentings  of  nature  had 
to  be  overcome — a  struggle  had  to  be  made, 
and  other  emotions  were  pressed  into  the  ser- 
vice, that  the  one  troublesome  emotion  of  sym- 
pathy might  be  effectually  overruled.  We  can 
be  at  no  loss  to  understand  what  these  other 
emotions  or  influences  are — the  absolute  need 
of  a  liveliliood — the  love  of  gain — the  spiriting 


220  Sorrow. 

on  of  the  unitiated — the  factitious  conjuring  up 
even  of  something  hke  a  sense  of  honor — the 
rivalship  of  young  apprentices,  with  whom  a 
resolute  and  unshrinking  hardihood  will  confer 
the  same  distinction,  that  adventure  does  in 
the  chase,  or  that  prowess  does  in  war."  "The 
most  appaUing  confession  that  we  ever  heard 
upon  this  subject,  was  given  by  one  of  the  bro- 
therhood with  whom,  upon  this  very  topic,  we 
deemed  it  of  importance  to  hold  a  most  minute 
and  searching  conversation  ;  and  who  reported 
of  one  of  his  f^ow-savages,  that,  instead  of  the 
one  deep  and  deadly  incision  which  he  ought  to 
have  given,  it  was  his  habit  at  times  to  do  the 
work  by  halves,  and  then  suspend  the  wounded 
animal  by  the  feet,  where  it  had  to  welter  long 
in  agony  ere  it  expired.  The  recital  is  just 
distressing  enough — but  we  resolved,  if  possi- 
ble, to  get  at  the  motive  which  could  prompt 
so  horrid  a  barbarity — and  the  explanation 
was,  ^that  he  just  wanted  to  see  how  it  would 
carry  on.^  ^^  ^ 

It  is  worthy  of  attention  that  the  mind  has  a 
degree  of  pleasure  while  thinking  of  sorrows 
that  are  like  its  oivn.    If  we  are  reading  a  book, 

♦  Chalmers'  Moral  Phil.,  p.  261. 


The  Joy  of  Sobrow.  221 

and  that  book  is  rehearsing  scenes  of  grief  that 
are  ahnost  the  same  as  those  through  which  we 
have  passed,  we  have  a  pleasing  sadness  from 
that  fact.  If  a  mother  has  lost  a  child  and 
happens  to  find  a  piece  of  poetry  that  applies 
to  that  child,  the  piece  of  poetry  is  saved.  If 
a  person  has  passed  through  the  same  troubles 
that  we  have  ourselves,  he  is  listened  to  with 
greater  interest  on  that  account.  When  the 
sorrowful  are  visited  by  those  who  feel  for 
them,  it  is  natural  to  mention  the  trials  and 
griefs  that  are  common  to  each-  party.  Is  it 
not  true  also  that  men  love  to  see  their  own 
image  ? — ^it  making  no  difference  whether  that 
image  is  seen  in  a  sorrow  or  a  joy,  in  a  body  or 
a  mind.  Does  not  God  even  find  deUght  in 
that  which  resembles  himself? 


CHAPTER  XIY. 

SORROW  ASA  CONSTITUENT  ELEMENT  OF  RELIGION. 

IT  is  a  striking  fact  that  almost  at  the  very 
beginning  of  the  Sermon  on  the  Mount, 
Christ  throws  a  radiance  around  sorrow.  Hav- 
ing mentioned  spiritual  poverty  he  says, 
"Blessed  are  they  that  mourn.''^  Manifestly  re- 
ligion is  born  in  the  midst  of  sorrow.  As  night 
has  been  represented  as  the  mother  of  the 
gods,  so  it  is  the  mother  of  that  which  is  god- 
hke  among  men. 

Penitence,  which  is  the  first  step  of  religion, 
has  in  it  the  element  of  sorrow.  It  is  not  that 
sorrow  itself  is  repentance.  It  is  only  a  part 
of  it ;  a  necessary  part.  There  can  be  no  re- 
pentance without  it.  Grief  because  sin  has 
been  committed  is  the  very  soul  of  penitence. 
It  is  not  so  much  that  trouble  has  arisen  from 
the  fact  of  sin  that  the  mind  is  grieved.  Mere 
natural  repentance  looks  mainly  to  consequen- 


SOBROW  AS  AN  ELEMENT  OF  PlETY.  223 

ces  ;  while  in  spiritual  repentance  sin  per  se  is 
hated,  turned  from,  and  its  opposite  followed. 
The  sorrow  therefore  is  not  wrapped  about 
with  a  cunning  selfishness.  It  is  no  stroke  of 
policy.  Utilitarianism  could  not  lead  to  it. 
Wherever  I  see  true  penitential  grief,  I  see 
that  which  is  holy,  that  which  is  divine.  If 
there  be  no  disinterested  regret,  the  soul  is 
still  mastered  by  a  depraved  nature.  The  sor- 
row of  repentance  can  be  seen  as  a  living  real- 
ity in  the  following  account  which  Dr.  Samuel 
Hopkins  gives  of  his  conversion.  He  says  : 
"As  I  was  in  my  closet  one  evening,  while  I 
was  meditating,  and  in  my  devotions,  a  new 
and  wonderful  scene  opened  to  my  view.  I 
had  a  sense  of  the  being  and  presence  of  God 
as  I  never  had  before  j  it  being  more  of  a  real- 
ity and  more  affecting  and  glorious,  than  I  had 
ever  before  perceived.  And  the  character  of 
Jesus  Christ,  the  mediator,  came  into  view, 
and  appeared  such  a  reahty,  and  so  glorious, 
and  the  way  of  salvation  by  him  so  wise,  im- 
portant, and  desirable,  that  I  was  astonished  at 
myself  that  I  had  aever  seen  these  things  be- 
fore, which  were  so  plain,  pleasing,  and  won- 
derful. 1  longed  to  have  all  see  and  know  these 
things  as  they  now  appeared  to   me.     I  was 


224  Sorrow. 

greatly  affected,  in  the  view  of  my  own  deprav- 
ity, the  sinfulness,  guilt,  and  odiousness  of  my 
character  ;  and  tears  flowed  in  great  plenty. 
After  some  time,  I  left  my  closet,  and  went  in- 
to the  adjoining  room,  no  other  person  being 
then  there.  I  walked  the  room,  all  intent  on 
these  subjects,  and  took  up  Watt's  version  of 
the  Psalms,  and  opened  it  at  the  fifty-first 
Psalm,  and  read  the  first,  second,  and  third 
parts  in  long  metre,  with  strong  affections,  and 
made  it  all  my  own  language,  and  thought  it 
was  the  language  of  my  heart  to  God.  I 
dwelt  upon  it  with  pleasure,  and  wept  much.* 
Great  moral  victories  generally  spring  out  of 
sorrow.  The  drunkard  who  truly  reforms  has 
a  vein  of  sadness  deep  down  in  his  heart.  The 
profligate  youth  who  tramples  his  sins  in  the 
dust  is  incited  to  do  so  by  the  inspiring  power 
of  grief.  Peter  became  a  conqueror  for  life  by 
reason  of  his  heartfelt  sorrow.  Does  not  every 
leading  victory  of  the  Christian  seem  like  a  new 
conversion,  having  connected  with  it  a  kind  of 
new  repentance  ?  In  appearance  this  is  so. 
Yea,'  so  much  is  it  so,  that  truly  pious  persons 
have  even  imagined  that  they  were  not  con- 

*  Merks,  voL  ii.,  p.  17. 


Sorrow  as  an  Element  op  Piety.         225 

verted  till  they  had  passed  through  one  of 
these  great  changes  of  their  life.  The  sorrow 
which  agitated  their  whole  being  at  such  a  time 
seemed  alone  worthy  to  be  called  the  sorrow 
of  penitence.  John  Wesley  may  have  been 
converted  before  he  came  into  contact  with  the 
Moravians,  although  it  was  his  opinion  that  he 
was  not.  In  many  cases  what  is  called  conver- 
sion may  be  nothing  but  a  higher  stage  of  spiri- 
tual development.  There  are  natures  in  which 
the  new  life  is  hidden  for  a  time,  just  as  a 
stream  is  hidden  while  working  its  way  through 
the  central  openings  of  a  mountain.  Almost 
every  revival  of  religion  has  more  converts  than 
rightly  belongs  to  it,  some  having  submitted  to 
God  before  the  revival  commenced.  However 
strange  it  may  appear,  there  are  persons  who 
are  really  converted  while  as  yet  they  know  it 
not.  Some  who  think  they  are  Christians  are 
not :  some  who  think  they  are  sinners  are  in 
in  fact  Christians. 

Solemnity  may  be  looked  upon  as  one  of  the 
elements  of  religious  sorrow.  There  are  times 
when  the  human  spirit  has  no  afl&nity  for  thai 
which  is  solemn.  It  is  deemed  the  destroyer 
of  peace,  and  the  dark  cloud  that  eclipses  joy, 
There  are  other  times,  however,  when  solem- 


226  Sorrow. 

nity  has  a  cliarm  about  it.  Soft,  sacred  waves 
roll  over  the  troubled  mind ;  waves  that  arc 
silent,  and  that  seem  like  the  undulations  of 
God's  air.  It  is  wonderful  sometimes  the  spell 
that  lays  hold  of  a  congregation  while  truths  of 
eternal  import  are  impressing  the  soul.  A  still- 
ness different  from  that  of  night  pervades  the 
assembly.  The  solitary  voice  of  the  speaker 
seems  like  a  sound  from  eternity.  We  almost 
imagine  that  an  angel  is  holding  each  man  by 
the  hand,  and  pleading  with  him  to  prepare 
for  the  great  to-morrow  of  heaven.  The  intent 
ear,  the  suppressed  breathing,  the  occasional 
sigh,  show  that  the  fallen  spirit  has  found 
something  which  suits  its  nature.  The  solem- 
nity is  sealed  with  a  tear.  It  may  be  the  tear 
of  hope  or  of  penitence,  of  love  or  of  joy. 

The  distinction  between  guilt  and  penitential 
grief  may  here  be  noticed^  In  some  respects 
they  are  alike.  Guilt  is  painful,  has  to  do 
with  sin,  sometimes  produces  tears  :  godly  sor- 
row is  in  part  painful,  has  to  do  with  sin,  some- 
times produces  tears.  Yet  in  their  chief  ele- 
ments they  differ  altogether.  Guilt  is  constitu- 
tional, and  arises  by  a  kind  of  necessity :  the 
sorrow  of  penitence  shows  the  working  of  the 
will.     The  former  springs  up  in  the  natural 


SOBKOW  AS  AN  ELEMENT  OF  PlETY.  227 

conscience  ;  the  latter  in  the   spiritual  heart. 
The  one  is  judicial,  the  other  gracious. 

"  Repentance  and  remorse  are  not  the  same  ; 

That  is  a  heavenly,  this  an  earthly  flame  : 
-    One  springs  from  love  and  is  a  welcome  guest ; 
And  one  an  iron  tyrant  o'er  the  breast. 
Eepentance  weeps  before  the  Crucified  ; 
Remorse  is  nothing  more  than  wounded  pride. 
Remorse  through  horror  into  hell  is  driven, 
"While  true  repentance  always  goes  to  heaven." 

Remorse  may  exist  along  with  increasing 
wickedness :  but  repentance  cannot  exist  save 
as  there  is  holiness.  As  the  tear  that  drops 
from  the  leaf  of.  the  baca  tree  is  warm  and 
sharp,  but  has  no  virtue,  so  is  it  with  the  tear 
of  remorse.  If  remorse  were  repentance,  all 
would  be  repentant,  for  all  have  remorse. 
Persons  who  go  througli  life  with  a  deep  sense 
of  sin  and  guilt  are  in  danger  of  viewing  such 
an  experience  as  similar  to  hatred  of  sin.  They 
may  thus  encourage  themselves  with  the  con- 
ception that  they  are  growing  in  grace,  while 
in  reality  they  may  be  living  in  a  state  of  un- 
belief. When  unbelief  is  joined  to  an  enlight- 
ened conscience  it  will  keep  the  soul  in  a  state 
of  burning  pain ;  which  burning  pain  may 
easily  be     mistaken  for  a   bitter   repentance. 


228  Sorrow. 

The  burden  which  such  a  soul  carries  is  the 
burden  of  guilt ;  guilt  that  has  not  been  re- 
moved by  the  blood  of  Christ.  Faith  is  what 
is  wanted.  Among  some  Christian  people 
there  is  a  want  of  the  penitential  element,  and 
among  others  a  want  of  the  trusting  element. 
The  former  fail  in  their  experience  touching 
sin  ]  the  latter,  touching  the  Saviour.  The 
one  class  seem  to  have  faith,  but  no  conviction 
or  repentance  :  the  other  class  seem  to  have 
conviction  and  repentance,  but  no  faith.  Those 
who  have  little  sin  and  much  confidence  are 
easy :  those  who  have  little  confidence  and 
much  sin  are  unliappy. 

We  must  distinguish  also  between  the  sorrow 
of  sympathy  and  the  sorrow  of  piety.  There 
can  be  no  religion  without  sympatliy,  yet  there 
may  be  a  great  deal  of  sympathy  without  reli- 
gion. Sympathy  is  natural :  religion  is  super- 
natural. All  have  the  first :  only  a  few  have 
the  second.  Constitutional  sorrow,  however 
pure  it  may  be,  is  not  of  the  same  quality  as 
godly  sorrow.  There  is  danger  that  persons 
will  adopt  a  sympathetic  form  of  piety  just  be- 
cause all  piety  is  born  in  the  midst  of  emotion. 
Then  there  are  many  things  about  Christianity 
that  appeal  to  the  feelings  ;  so  that  if  the  mind 


Sorrow  as  an  Element  of  Piety.        229 

is  held  to  these  things  exdusively  there  may 
simply  be  developed  the  religion  of  feeling. 
Sir  W.  E.  Parry  states  that  ''he  knew  a  con- 
vict in  New  South  Wales  in  whom  there  ap- 
peared no  symptom  of  repentance  ;  but  who 
could  never  hear  a  sermon  or  comment  on.  the 
Parable  of  the  Prodigal  Son  without  bursting 
into  an  agony  of  tears. '^  A  preacher  of  great 
dramatic  power  may  so  present  the  Fatherhood 
of  God  to  his  congregation  that  many  of  them 
will  shed  tears.  Or  perhaps  better,  because 
more  human  and  nearer  to  man,  he  may  dis- 
course on  the  death  of  Jesus,  and  so  portray 
that  death  that  all  his  hearers  will  be  carried 
away  by  a  flood  of  most  tender  emotion.  Even 
the  trials  and  victories  of  humble  Christians 
in  dark  times  may  be  so  described  that  each 
man  and  child  will  weep.  How  easy  now  for 
one  to  think  that  all  this  sorrow  which  has  been 
called  forth  by  visions  of  God,  of  Christ,  and 
the  good,  is  really  the  sorrow  of  piety.  The 
very  purity  of  the  objects  which  occasion  the 
sorrow,  seems  to  imbue  it  with  a  quality  that 
is  also  pure,  even  as  water  presented  to  a  beg- 
gar in  a  golden  cup  seems  to  add  to  its  excel- 
lence. 

I  have  noticed  that  the  sorrow  which  ha« 


230  Sorrow. 

been  called  into  existence  by  the  death  of  a 
dear  friend  is  quite  likely  to  be  thought  of  as 
better  than  it  is,  just  because  of  the  very  ten- 
derness of  the  relation  and  the  unusual  sacred- 
ness  of  the  grief.  Nothing  is  so  attractive  to 
some  as  to  weep  themselves  into  heaven  ;  hop- 
ing when  they  reach  that  land  to  sing  forever 
with  those  they  love.  Says  Dr.  Chalmers  : 
''The  delusive  imagination  of  a  worth  and 
merit  in  these  sensibihties  is  very  often  to  be 
met  with  in  circumstances  where  it  is  most 
painful  to  encounter  it — as  when  the  bereaved 
mother,  after  that  her  infant  has  been  deposited 
in  an  early  tomb,  cherishes  the  treacherous 
complacency  that  her  tenderness  and  tears  will 
arise  in  acceptable  memorial  before  God  ;  and 
so  open  a  way  for  that  heaven  where,  in  bliss- 
ful reunion  with  all  that  is  dear  to  her,  she  will 
be  compensated  at  the  last  for  the  agony  of  her 
now  wounded  affections.  To  discourage  an 
anticipation  so  fond  and  so  beautiful  as  this, 
would  seem  to  require  a  certain  amount  of 
hardihood,  nay,  might  provoke  the  antipathies 
of  aggrieved  nature,  against  that  stern  theology 
which  knows  not  how  to  soften  or  relent  even 
before  the  most  gracefully  touching  of  all  spec- 
tacles.    And  hence  the  exceeding  delicacy  of 


SOKROW  AS  AN  ELEMENT  OF  PlETY.  231 

that  task,  vvliich  often  comes  in  the  way  of  a 
conscientious  minister,  whose  duty  it  is  to  weep 
with  them  that  weep  ;  but  who  must  not  forget 
that  Christianity  is  firm  as  well  as  merciful,  and, 
while  exuberant  of  comfort  to  all  who  comply 
with  its  overtures,  it  is  not  a  comfort  which  as 
the  ambassador  of  his  master  in  heaven  he  can 
dare  to  minister  at  the  expense  of  principle  and 
truth."  * 

Almost  every  one  has  known  certain  reli- 
gious men  who  seemed  to  have  no  tears.  They 
were  persons  of  great  decision  and  perseve- 
rance. They  had  moral  principles  that  would 
not  bend,  and  moral  courage  that  would  not 
falter.  Generally  they  were  men  who  had  cul- 
tivated the  positive  virtues  instead  of  the  pas- 
sive. The  will  and  the  conscience  had  been 
powers  in  their  development:  the  heart  had 
not  been  sufficiently  warmed  and  mellowed. 
They  seemed  to  think  that  it  was  wrong  not 
only  to  murmur,  but  wrong  to  show  any  signs 
of  grief  when  trouble  had  cut  into  their  being. 
To  manifest  signs  of  grief  would  be  to  them  an 
evidence  that  they  were  not  reconciled  to  the 
divine  arrangements.     The  doctrine  of  submis- 

*  Moral  PMl.  p.  239. 


232  Sorrow. 

sioa  to  God  is  a  sublime  doctrine ;  but  jet  if  it 
ha^  so  mastered  the  soul  that  the  very  fountain 
of  tears  is  dried  up  by  its  presence,  then  it  is  a 
distorted  form  of  submission.  The  lofty  moun- 
tain has  all  the  more  grandeur  when  a  river  is 
seen  to  flow  at  its  base  ;  and  submission  to  God 
is  never  so  stately  and  divine  as  when  the 
stream  of  sorrow  is  allowed  to  meander  gently 
beside  it.  One  does  not  cease  to  be  a  man 
when  he  becomes  a  Christian.  Many  have 
given  all  their  children  back  to  God  at  God's 
request ;  and  then  having  done  this,  they 
prayed  with  submission,  yet  with  a  sigh  which 
told  of  the  greatness  of  their  loss.  The  mother 
who  kisses  her  dying  child  with  a  tear  in  her 
eye  is  more  beautiful,  than  if  with  quietness 
she  manifested  no  symptom  of  grief 

I  may  call  attention  just  here  "to  certain 
abnormal  growths  of  Christian  life  which  are 
unproductive  of  Christian  joy.  When  certain 
varieties  of  temperament  come  under  the  sway 
of  regenerating  grace,  they  shrink  instinctively 
from  faith,  even  from  hope,  that  the  life  of  God 
may  have  been  imparted  to  such  as  they.  The 
credibihty  of  experience  in  these  cases  is 
marred  by  no  overweening  self-confidence. 
The  most  fastidious  sceptic  is  not  here  repelled 


Sorrow  as  an  Element  of  Piety.         233 

by  tlie  assumptions  of  haughty  sanctity.  Ko 
honest  lip  can  curl  in  contempt  of  the  inconsis- 
tency of  character  with  profession.  These 
Christians  make  no  professions.  They  express 
no  assurance.  They  enjoy  little  or  no  hope 
for  themselves.  The  inner  life  of  some  of  them 
is  as  the  valley  of  the  shadow  of  death.  Yet 
who  that  knows  anything  of  unrecorded  Chris- 
tian history  does  not  recall  some  from  this 
group  of  crushed  spirits,  who  have  exhibited 
to  all  spectators  an  overwhelming  testimony  to 
the  working  within  them  of  infinite  power  ? 
They  have  seemed  to  exhale  the  evidence  of 
God's  indwelling.  They  have  commanded 
from  others  a  confidence  which  they  dared  not 
whisper  to  themselves."  "I  can  never  listen 
to  the  singing  of  some  of  the  hymns  of  Cowper 
without  a  thrill  of  reverence  for  the  grace  of 
God  which  could  work  so  mightily  in  a  dis- 
eased soul.  Some  of  Cowper's  most  affect- 
ing lyrics,  to  which  millions  of  Christian  hearts 
have  turned  lovingly,  as  to  the  most  truthful 
expressions  of  their  own  experience  which  they 
luive  ever  found,  except  in  the  Psalms  of  Da- 
vid, were  composed  during  those  eleven  years 
in  which,  as  he  tells  us,  not  a  solitary  moment 


234  SoRBOW. 

of  hope  of  his  own  salvation  ever  cheered  his 
soul."* 

The  truly  pious  man  has  a  feeling  of  sadness 
when  he  scans  closely  Ms  past  life.  When 
John  Mason  Good  was  upon  his  death-bed,  he 
uttered  this  sentence  :  "I  have  been  led  astray 
by  the  vanity  of  human  learning,  and  by  the 
love  of  human  applause."  The  past  was  not 
pleasing.  Deficiency  is  written  on  the  top  of 
every  page  of  life's  volume.  AVhat  an  amount 
of  mental  and  bodily  effort  which  has  counted 
nothing.  The  time  which  has  thus  been 
wasted.  Then  that  kind  of  existence  which 
has  looked  no  farther  than  this  earth, — blank 
worldliness.  The  exceedingly  faint  vision  we 
have  had  of  the  Deity,  of  the  supremacy  of  his 
I)lans,  of  the  vastness  and  sublimity  of  his 
movements.  The  number  of  men  that  we 
have  seen  during  a  hfetime,  and  the  opportu- 
nity thus  granted  for  benevolent  labor  :  the 
fearful  range  of  our  evil  influence.  Yf  hat  we 
might  be  at  this  moment  if  the  past  had  been 
all  worked  up  so  as  to  form  character  and 
mental  strength.  The  feeling  of  sadness  which 
necessarily  arises  in  view  of  such  a  retrospect ; 

*  Prof.  Phelps,  Biblioth.  Sacra,  vol.  xxiii.  p.  300. 


SOEKOW  AS  AN  ELEMENT  OF  PlETY.  235 

a  sadness,  however,  which,  as  it  prompts  to  re- 
pentance for  the  past,  makes  us  more  careful 
with  reference  to  the  future. 

The  overwhehning  sorrow  of  Archbishop 
Cranmer,  because  he  had  recanted  in  view  of 
the  terrible  death  that  awaited  him,  illustrates 
the  thought  before  us  in  a  most  striking  man- 
ner. The  historian  says  :  "A  man  might  have 
seen  the  very  image  of  perfect  sorrow  lively 
expressed  in  him.  More  than  twenty  distinct 
times,  while  listening  to  the  sermon  that  was 
delivered  in  his  hearing  a  short  time  before  he 
was  led  to  the  stake,  the  tears  flowed  abun- 
dantly, dropping  down  upon  his  fatherly  face. 
Those  who  were  present,  do  testify  that  they 
never  saw  in  any  child  more  tears  than  burst 
out  from  him  at  that  time,  during  all  the  ser- 
mon :  but  especially  when  they  recited  his 
prayer  before  the  people.  It  is  marvellous 
what  commiseration  and  pity  moved  all  men's 
hearts  that  beheld  so  heavy  a  countenance, 
and  such  abundance  of  tears  in  an  old  man 
of  so  reverend  dignity.  '  Forasmuch  as  my 
hand  offended,'  he  remarked,  '  writing  contrary 
to  my  heart,  my  hand  shall  first  be  punished 
for  it :  for  when  I  come  to  the  fire  it  shall  be 
first  burned.'^     "Then  an  iron  chain  was  tied 


236  SoiiEow. 

about  Craniner,  and  when  they  perceived  him 
to  be  more  steadfast  than  to  be  moved  from 
his  sentence,  they  commanded  the  fire  to  be  set 
to  him.  And  when  the  wood  was  kindled,  and 
the  fire  began  to  burn  near  him,  stretching  out 
his  arm,  he  put  his  right  hand  into  the  flame, 
which  he  held  so  steadfast  and  immovable,  that 
all  might  see  his  hand  burned  before  his  body 
was  touched.  His  body  did  so  abide  the  burn- 
ing of  the  flame  with  such  constancy  and  stead- 
fastness, that  standing  always  in  one  place  with- 
out moving  his  body,  he  seemed  to  move  no 
more  than  the  stake  to  which  he  was  bound  ; 
his  eyes  were  lifted  up  to  heaven,  and  often- 
times he  repeated,  '  this  unworthy  right  hand  J  "  * 
I  may  here  note,  that  religion  is  not  all  sor- 
row, though  there  is  no  religion  without  sor- 
row. The  shadow  and  the  cloud  do  not  make 
known  the  whole  of  materialism.  The  beauti- 
ful coloring  of  nature,  the  sweetness  of  fruit, 
the  rich  perfume  of  flowers,  the  mu^ic  of  living 
creatures,  are  not  revealed  by  the  shadow :  the 
soft  light  and  universal  air,  the  electric  current 
and  wonderful  movement  of  light,  are  noli  ex- 
peUed  from  the  universe  by  the  existence  of  the 

•  John  Foxe,  Acts  and  Monuments  of  the  Church,  p.  904 


Sorrow  as  an  Element  of  Piety.         237 

cloud.  So  in  the  same  way  the  fine  traits  of 
piety  are  not  annihilated  by  the  presence  of 
sorrow.  As  the  smile  remains  with  ail  human 
beings,  even  though  they  have  fallen, — as  if  it 
were  the  memorial  of  Eden's  first  day,  and  a 
remnant  of  glory  from  the  skirts  of  God, — so 
joy  radiates  around  the  religion  of  sorrow, 
making  known  the  fact  that  holiness  is  its  de- 
light and  heaven  its  home.  The  tear  of  piety 
has  in  it  the  image  of  Jesus.  The  religion  of 
eternity  has  no  sorrow.  That  may  be  called 
the  absolute  religion, — the  ideal  life.  The  re- 
ligion of  time  has  curative  elements  mingling 
with  it.  It  ib  for  man  fallen.  As  the  rudi- 
ments of  the  piety  of  heavsn  are  contained  in 
the  piety  of  earth,  so  tlie  blessedness  that 
pertains  to  the  one  is  partially  realized  in  the 
other.  Sorrow  is  nothing  but  the  cold  breath 
of  man's  winter ;  a  winter  that  gives  new  life, 
and  prepares  for  the  summer  of  God. 

Sorrow!  thou  art  alike  the  friend  and  the 
foe  of  man.  With  unhappiness  thou  dost  wear 
out  his  soul,  and  with  joy  thou  dost  move  his 
heart.  Thy  footprints  are  seen  in  every  land, 
and  thy  hkeness  is  beheld  in  every  human  coun- 
tenance. The  day  knoweth  thee  as  well  as  the 
niglit ;  the  sabbath  as  well  as  the  working  week 


238  SoKRow. 

of  man.  Thou  art  found  in  the  haunts  of  sin, 
in  the  chamber  of  the  widow,  in  the  house  of 
the  Lord.  Amidst  the  joy  of  wedlock  thou  art 
seen  ;  in  the  silent  room  of  death  ;  and  beside 
the  sepulchres  of  men  when  the  winter  of  years 
has  come.  The  infant  hears  thy  voice  and 
weeps  ;  the  youth  is  pensive  in  the  midst  of  his 
song ;  the  full-grown  man  sighs  with  care,  and 
the  ancient  man  is  weary  with  his  pain.  In 
thy  right  hand  thou  boldest  the  cup  of  life,  and 
in  thy  left  the  dark  pitcher  of  death.  Even  the 
angels  invoke  thine  aid  in  their  mission  of  love, 
and  foul  spirits  ask  thee  to  tarry  with  them 
till  their  work  is  done.  Thou  art  found  in  the 
heart  of  the  good  man  and  the  bad.  Without 
thee  there  would  be  no  beauty  in  souls  ;  yet 
there  is  a  deformity  which  thou  sweepest  not 
away.  Thou  didst  darken  the  spirit  of  the 
Son  of  God.  The  shadow  of  all  the  earth  fell 
upon  him  and  became  night.  All  thy  woes 
were  poured  upon  his  head.  He  sank  to  the 
earth  as  one  slain.  Sorrow !  thou  art  full  of 
mystery  and  might ;  the  purifier  and  punisher 
of  men  ;  the  one  whom  all  wish  to  be  free  from, 
yet  the  one  that  lingers  till  the  last.  What  an 
hour  that  shall  be  when  thou  art  gone  ;  when 
the  mind  shall  work  in  harmony  like  the  sor- 


SOKEOW  AS  AN  ElJIMENT  OF  PlETT.  239 

rowless  minds  of  heaven  ;  when  eternity  shall 
be  passed  in  joy,  and  the  thought  of  thee  shall 
be  at  last  forgotten  amidst  the  glories  of  the 
Lord. 


CHAPTER   XV. 

THE  SORROW  THAT  IS  BEAUTIFUL. 

A  CERTAIN"  writer  has  remarked,  that 
"grief  is  a  divine  and  terrible  radiance 
which  transfigures  the  wretched."  This  is  true 
of  a  certain  kind  of  grief ;  a  kind  which  is 
marked  with  subhmity.  There  are  subhme 
sorrows,  just  as  there  are  subhme  storms.  I 
would  not  say  that  all  sorrow  is  beautiful.  If 
a  person  before  us  shrieks  because  of  the  bit- 
terness of  his  grief,  we  instinctively  turn  round 
and  look  at  another  object ;  the  sight  troubles 
us.  Uxceedingly  painful  sorrow  is  not  beauti- 
ful. When  Prometheus  made  known  to  lo 
her  fate,  she  manifested  grief  that  cannot 
be  called  beautiful.  The  state  of  her  mind 
she  thus  expresses  :  "  Eleleu  !  Eleleu  !  Once 
more  the  spasm  and  maddening  phrensies  in- 
flame me — and  the  sting  of  the  hornet,  wrought 


Beautiful  Sorrow.  241 

by  no  fire,  envenoms  me  ;  and  with  panic  my 
heart  throbs  violently  against  my  breast.  My 
eyes,  too,  are  rolling  in  a  mazy  whirl,  and  I 
am  carried  out  of  my  course  by  the  raging 
blast  of  madness,  having  no  control  of  tongue, 
but  my  troubled  words  dash  idly  against  the 
surges  of  loathsome  calamity.''*  Quite  difFe- 
ent  from  this  is  the  sorrow  of  the  Queen  of 
France,  in  Shakespeare's '' King  Lear."  Her 
sorrow  as  described  has  touches  of  real  beauty 
about  it. 

"  Now  and  then  an  ample  tear  trill'd  down 
Her  delicate  cheek  :  it  seem'd  she  was  a  queen 
Over  her  passion  ;  who,  most  rebel-like, 
Sought  to  be  the  king  o'er  her. 

O,  then  it  mov'd  her. 
Not  to  rage  :  patience  and  sorrow  strove 
"Who  should  express  her  goodliest.     You  have  seen 
Sunshine  and  rain  at  once  :  her  smiles  and  tears 
"Were  like  a  better  day  :  Those  happy  smiles, 
That  play'd  on  her  ripe  lip,  seem'd  not  to  know 
"What  guests  were  in  her  eyes  ;  which  parted  thence, 
As  pearls  from  diamonds  dropp'd. — In  brief,  sorrow 
Would  be  a  rarity  most  belov'd,  if  all 
Could  so  become  it."  * 

The  sorrow  that  starts  tears  is  more  beautiful 

*  Tragedies  of  ^schylus,  p.  29,  Buckley's  Trans. 
t  Act  IV.,  scene  iii. 


242  Sorrow. 

than  the  sorrow  that  starts  crying.  The  sound 
of  the  voice  in  weeping  is  not  so  pleasing  to  us 
as  the  sight  of  the  silent  tear  in  the  eye  ;  con- 
sequently it  is  not  so  beautiful.     If  the  crying 
is  loud  and  tumultuous,  we  never  think  of  it  as 
beautiful  ;  it  simply  in  that  case  expresses  the 
deep  anguish  of  the  spirit.     When  the  weeping 
is   the   gentle   voice  of  a  crushed    nature, — a 
nature   that  is   subdued  and    that    looks    up- 
ward,— ^there  is  then  a  degree  of  beauty  per- 
taining to  it.     The  lament  of  a  bird  that  has 
lost  its  young  is  both  touching  and  beautiful. 
Suppose  that  the  Creator  had  so  fashioned  us 
that  we  never  could  shed  tears  or  cry  when  in 
sorrow,  what  a  want  that  would  be!     Or  sup- 
pose that  the  voice  alone  expressed  grief,  and 
the  eye  did  not  express  it,  approaching  in  that 
case  to  certain  of  the  lower  orders,  what  a  de- 
ficiency would  exist.     I  cannot  but  think  that 
man  is  exalted  just  because  he  can  shed  tears. 
Certainly   this   characteristic   of  our    race    is 
beautiful.     Perhaps  there  is  no  other  being  in 
the    universe    that   weeps  but   man.     At   all 
events,  as  far  as  this  earth  is  concerned,  man 
may  be  defined  as  the  being  that  weeps.     It  is 
a  very  strange  thing  that  sorrow  should  connect 
itself  with  the  eye  j  sending  forth  a  tear  as  its 


Beautiful  Soreow.  243 

symbol.  This  is  even  more  strange  than  that 
it  should  connect  itself  with  the  voice.  Tears 
and  weeping  point  to  a  distinct  language  ;  a 
language  that  is  understood  over  the  whole 
earth. 

There  is  a  loveliness  about  the  tears  of  grati- 
tude.' Grateful  feeling  seems  to  be  doubled  in 
value  by  their  presence.  It  is  also  rendered 
more  sacred ;  for  we  think  of  the  tenrs  as 
memorials  of  a  sweet  affection  ;  as  a  kind  of 
prayers  and  offerings.  The  tear  of  gratitude 
expresses  thanks,  though  not  a  word  is  spoken. 
It  makes  us  think  of  the  evening  star  that 
shines  so  beautifully ;  of  the  rainbow  that  spans 
the  sky  when  the  storm  is  abating ;  of  the  dew 
that  gems  the  flowers  of  paradise,  giving  a 
friendly  welcome  to  the  saint  during  his  walk 
in  glory.  When  I  see  a  man  shake  another  by 
the  hand  and  thank  him  with  a  tear  in  his  eye, 
I  know  that  the  love  of  the  heart  is  pure  and 
ardent.  Of  course  it  is  strange  that  a  tear  and 
gratitude  should  be  found  together  ;  but  the 
tear  is  a  witness  of  the  evil  from  which  the  fa- 
vored man  has  been  saved.  The  witness  is 
transformed,  however,  into  a  messenger  of  joy, 
as  if  it  were  participating  in  the  good  which 
had    been   received.      If    blood    should    oozo 


244  Sorrow. 

forth  from  the  wounded  brow  of  the  warrior 
because  of  the  joy  which  he  felt  while  behold- 
ing his  friends,  that  blood  would  be  the  sign  of 
a  greatness  which  appeared  all  the  greater  by 
reason  of  a  memorial  that  was  so  affecting. 
The  tear  is  the  seal  of  gratitude.  It  is  the 
diamond  that  sparkles  in  the  ring  of  love  ;  the 
beautiful  hieroglyph  of  a  sorrow  that  is  gone  ; 
pointing  to  a  joy  that  already  has  come. 

The  tear  of  joy  is  more  beautiful  than  the 
tear  of  sorrow.  It  receives  a  lustre  from  the 
one  feeling  which  it  cannot  so  fully  receive 
from  the  other.  The  tear  of  sorrow  simply 
points  to  a  single  emotion  ;  while  the  tear  of 
joy  intimates  that  two  emotions  are  mingling 
together,  even  as  the  cloud  and  the  sunshine 
mingle  together  in  the  heavens. 

There  must  have  been  a  singular  beauty  in 
some  of  the  phases  of  the  sorrow  of  Jesus. 
The  fact  that  he  was  sinless,  and  yet  sorrowful, 
arrests  the  attention.  His  whole  character 
threw  a  radiance  around  his  sorrow.  When 
Jesus  wept,  that  was  a  scene  which  no  one  has 
been  able  as  yet  to  put  upon  canvas.  Think 
of  Chrisfs  tear  of  love!  When  did  mercy  ever 
appear  so  beautiful  ?  If  a  saint  in  glory  or  a 
seraph  were  to  drop  a  tear  upon  his  white  robe 


Beautiful  Sorrow.  245 

while  thinking  of  the  earth  and  man,  such  a 
tear  would  not  be  so  beautiful  as  the  sorrow  of 
the  Son  of  God.  The  tears  of  Jesus  were  like 
the  pearls  of  heaven.  It  is  true  that  he  had  a 
sorrow  that  was  sublime,  and  a  sorrow  that 
was  terrible  and  full  of  mystery  j  yet  he  also 
had  a  sorrow  that  was  beautiful.  The  rose  of 
Sharon  did  bend  because  of  the  heavy  dews  of 
night. 

That  sorrow  which  springs  from  the  higher 
nature  of  man  is  beautiful.  Here  is  an  immor- 
tal spirit  putting  forth  its  strength  to  overcome 
evil,  and  yet  failing.  A  sigh  goes  up  because 
the  way  to  perfection  is  so  difficult.  The  soul 
looks  around  upon  all  earthly  things.  Nothing 
seems  as  it  should  be  ;  nothing  satisfies  the 
pure  reason  of  man.  Here  is  a  soul  that  was 
modelled  with  reference  to  eternity,  with  refer- 
ence to  God,  yet  wandering  among  the  shadows 
of  time,  side  by  side  with  those  who  have 
strayed  from  the  Infinite  Excellence.  There 
may  be  persons  whose  minds  are  not  troubled 
by  the  deformities  of  life.  Their  effort  may  be 
to  have  a  joy  that  is  not  shaded  by  any  true 
conception  of  men  and  things.  A  great  indif- 
ference may  have  hardened  and  fortified  their 
nature.      Their  composure  may  be  that  of  a 


246  SoKKOw. 

dead  sea.  The  state  of  such  persons  may  seem 
to  some  to  be  enviable ;  but  a  thousand  times 
more  enviable  is  that  beautiful  sadness  of  a 
great  spirit  which  has  been  generated  by  a 
sight  of  life  as  it  is.  There  is  something  ex- 
ceedingly attractive  about  the  longing  of  im- 
mortal creatures  for  a  harmony  which  has  not 
yet  been  found,  and  for  a  home  which  has  not 
yet  been  reached.  When  I  behold  such  beings 
passing  through  among  us,  with  pensiveness 
written  upon  their  brow,  and  their  eye  telling 
of  earth  and  heaven  at  the  same  time,  I  say 
these  are  the  men  who  alone  are  reasonable  j 
their  sad  consciousness,  if  it  proclaims  the 
night,  heralds  also  the  day.  The  whole  of  this 
kind  of  sorrow  shows  the  working  of  superior 
states  and  tendei^cies  in  the  human  spirit.  We 
notice  that  a  God-created  mind  is  somewhat 
alive  to  the  great  realities  of  existence,  and  so 
II  sighs  as  one  who  is  in  exile, — wearied  be- 
cause of  the  pressure  and  obduracy  of.  evil, 
longing  for  an  eternal  day  at  God's  right  hand. 
All  that  sorrow  is  beautiful  which  arises  in  the 
soul  as  one  gazes  at  the  ever-moving  procession 
of  mortals,  the  serene  depths-of  the  eternal  sky, 
the  vanishing  away  of  ships  to  a  remote  land 
with  friends  on  board,  the  setting  of  suns  and 


Beautiful  Soeeow.  247 

the  approach  of  niglit.  "I  had  contracted  a 
habit,"  remarks  Rousseau,  "of  going  in  the 
evening  to  sit  upon  the  sandy  shore,  especially 
when  the  lake  was  agitated.  I  felt  a  singular 
pleasure  in  seeing  the  waves  break  at  my  feet. 
I  formed  of  them  in  my  imagination  the  image 
of  the  tumult  of  the  world  contrasted  with  the 
peace  of  my  habitation,  and  this  pleasing  idea 
sometimes  softened  me  even  to  tears.*  Such 
tears  were  beautiful.  Suppose  we  are  seated 
upon  the  summit  of  a  lofty  mountain.  A  great 
city  is  seen  in  the  distance.  A  winding  river 
flows  through  the  plain.  The  sound  of  a  human 
voice  does  not  reach  us.  Winged  creatures  are 
journeying  through  the  air,  and  there  is  the 
constant  murmur  of  winds.  We  look  all 
around ;  look  upward  and  sigh.  That  sigh  is 
beautiful.  We  think  of  the  great  Being  who 
is  throned  above  all.  Storms  reach  him  not. 
His  pavilion  is  the  infinite  light.  He  has  a 
serenity  which  our  ideal  does  not  reach,  a 
blessedness  which  we  cannot  tell.  Meditating 
upon  this  Uncreated  Person,  there  touches  the 
heart  a  divine  sadness. 

What  a  sacred  beauty  there  is  about   the 

*  Confessions,  p.  548,  London  ed. 


24:8  SoREOW. 

sorrow  of  penitence.  Here  is  a  man  who  was 
careless,  conceited,  lost  in  the  world.  Now  his 
heart  is  intent  on  goodness,  God,  and  the  fu- 
ture hfe.  Sin  pains  him.  He  sheds  tears  over 
the  past,  looking  with  hope  towards  the  future. 
The  sight  is  pleasing.  Here  is  a  youth  sighing 
over  his  fall,  longing  for  the  light,  kneeling  be- 
fore God.  His  prayers  are  borne  aloft  on  the 
wings  of  sorrow,  on  the  wings  also  of  faith. 
Youthful  penitence  is  beautiful.  Confession  to 
man  and  to  God  ;  the  repentant  feeling  or  the 
act  of  restitution ;  the  tear  in  the  heart  or  the 
tear  in  the  eye, — all  are  beautiful.  Sin  has  no 
beauty,  even  as  darkness  has  none.  The  self- 
ish thought,  the  malicious  feeling,  the  rebel- 
lious choice,  are  all  abhorrent.  The  beauty  of 
penitential  sorrow  may  be  seen  in  the  case  of 
Odo  of  Tournay,  who  flourished  in  the  twelfth 
century.  "At  first  a  teacher  of  the  realistic 
philosophy,  in  the  cathedral  school  at  Tourna,y, 
he  was  attended  by  crowds  of  enthusiastic  pu- 
pils from  France,  Germany  and  the  Nether- 
lands. In  his  school,  engaged  in  the  exposition 
of  Augustine's  work  '  Concerning  Free-wilV  he 
came  to  a  passage  which  sets  forth  the  wretched 
condition  of  those  whose  souls  are  devoted  to 
earthly  pursuits,  to  the  forfeiture  of  heavenly 


Beautiful  Sorrow.  249 

glory.  Applying  the  argument  to  himself  and 
his  ambitious  scholars,  so  greatly  was  he  moved 
by  his  own  expostulations,  that,  bursting  into 
tears,  he  rose  from  the  chair,  and,  followed  by 
a  number  of  his  pupils,  went  forth  to  the  church, 
where  he  devoted  himself  to  the  pursuit  of  those 
higher  honors  which  come  from  Grod."  *  That 
"  bursting  into  tears  "  in  view  of  a  vain  life  was 
beautiful. 

We  may  notice  the  sweet  attractiveness  of 
sympathetic  sorrow.  Behold  friends  standing 
round  a  coffin,  in  tears,  and  those  looking  on 
shedding  tears  also  :  the  sadness  is  beautiful. 
**  Sir  Walter  Scott  and  his  family  declined  a 
distinguished  invitation  to  dine  out  on  a  certain 
day  when  a  favorite  dog  happened  to  die,  and 
the  w^hole  household  went  to  his  burial  in  a  ro- 
mantic spot  of  the  garden,  and  were  not  ashamed 
to  shed  tears  over  the  green  spot  that  covered 
him."  Some  persons  may  smile  at  such  sor- 
row. I  think,  however,  that  there  is  a  phase 
of  beauty  about  it.  A  dog  that  has  watched 
carefully  our  dwelling  for  years,  that  has  proved 
more  faithful  than  man,  that  once  saved  us  from 
death,  may  well  cause  sorrow  when  it  is  gone. 

*  Quoted  in  Baird's  Eloliim  Ftevealed,  p.  27. 


250  SoEEOw. 

Love  bending  over  a  wounded  enemy,  and 
wiping  the  wound  with  one  hand  and  the  tears 
from  the  eye  with  the  other,  is  very  beautiful. 
Equally  so  is  a  mother's  sadness,  as  for  months 
she  watches  over  a  sick  child.  The  lamp  of  af- 
fection is  burning  through  the  night  of  trouble. 
It  goes  not  out.  The  tears  of  a  mother  are 
beautiful  as  she  kisses  her  new-married  daugh- 
ter. The  thought  of  giving  up  the  child  of 
one's  love  to  the  love  of  another  ;  the  fact  that 
home  is  to  be  left  and  a  new  life  to  be  tried, — 
these  affect  the  heart.  As  the  unmarried  sis- 
ters kiss  her  who  is  about  to  leave  them,  they 
weep.  The  whole  is  natural ;  it  is  beautiful. 
The  father  tries  to  restrain  his  sorrow.  He, 
however,  wipes  his  eyes. 

That  meditative  sorrow  which  relates  to  a  de- 
parted friend,  when  it  is  not  carried  too  far,  is 
beautiful.  Suppose  that  that  departed  friend 
is  a  mother.  She  went  away  before  age  had 
come.  Beauty  was  on  her  cheek.  Her  life 
was  full  of  kindliness, — it  was  like  the  beam  of 
the  west  in  the  season  of  spring.  The  words 
that  fell  from  her  lips  were  peace.  As  a  being 
from  another  realm  she  lived  here.  But  death 
came.  In  the  summer  she  went  away.  Her 
last  hours  were  gilded  with  a  quiet  joy.     She 


Beautiful  Sorrows.  251 

spoke  to  each  of  us  before  she  died.  I  have 
wept  many  times  since.  As  a  presence  I  find 
her  with  me  in  soUtude.  Even  now  she  directs 
my  steps.  In  moments  of  danger  I  am  cau- 
tioned ;  in  moments  of  trouble  I  am  comforted. 
I  think  of  some  unkind  word  which  I  spoke  to 
her.  Tears  drop  from  my  eyes.  It  is  three 
years  to-day  since  she  die3.  The  day  is  sa- 
cred. I  am  serious  in  the  midst  of  the  laugh- 
ter of  men.  They  know  not  my  thoughts. 
I  enter  the  graveyard.  The  clouds,  like  float- 
ing islands,  are  sailing  across  a  heavenly  ocean, 
and  the  mountain  bird  is  hastening  to  its 
nest.  I  stand  by  the  grave  of  my  mother  ;  I 
read  her  epitaph  ;  I  recall  the  past.  Quickly, 
however,  my  mind  wanders  off  to  the  fields  of 
eternity.  I  would  reach  those  who  have  loft 
me.  But  the  time  is  not  yet ;  neither  am  I 
prepared.  I  must  weep  and  work  a  few  days 
more.  When  the  great  to-morrow  comes  I 
shall  depart. 

A  heavenly  lustre  is  given  to  sorrow  when  it 
blends  with  such  feelings  as  patience,  resigna- 
tion, love,  joy,  hope.  This  is  much  the  same  as 
surrounding  the  dying  bed  of  a  saint  with  a 
company  of  angels.  We  think  also  of  the 
Mending  of  colors  in  the  rainbow ;  making 
that  to  be  one  of  the  most  beautiful  sights  in 


252  Sorrow. 

nature.  When  sorrow  unites  with  bad  feel- 
ings— as  misanthropy,  pride,  envy,  revenge, 
avarice — it  is  not  beautiful.  Sorrow  in  such  a 
case  is  like  the  gloom  of  a  cold  stormy  day. 
The  passive  virtues  are  all  queenly  and  attrac- 
tive, and  so  they  easily  blend  with  sorrow.  It 
is  a  significant  fact  also  that  if  we  want  a  friend 
during  a  time  of  trouble,  we  make  selection  of 
one  who  has  the  passive  traits.  He  may  not 
be  wiser  than  others,  may  not  be  better 
than  others,  yet  we  love  him;  love  him  be- 
cause he  works  through  the  heart.  Says 
Edmund  Burke:  "Those  persons  who  creep 
into  the  hearts  of  most  people,  who  are  cho- 
sen as  the  companions  of  their  softer  hours, 
and  their  reliefs  from  care  and  anxiety,  are 
neither  persons  of  shining  qualities  nor  strong 
virtues.  It  is  rather  the  soft  green  of  the  soul 
on  which  we  rest  our  eyes,  that  are  fatigued 
with  beholding  more  glaring  objects."*  We 
admire  fearlessness  and  decision,  but  do  not 
say  that  these  active  virtues  are  beautiful. 
Still,  if  a  fearless  man  sheds  tears,  it  looks  very 
beautiful ;  perhaps  because  of  the  contrast.  If 
we  behold  a  courageous  soldier  weeping  at  the 
grave  of  his  sister,  wife,  or  child,  it  impresses 

*  The  Sublime  and  Beautiful,  p.  138. 


Beautiful  Sorrow.  253 

us  more  favorably  than  if  a  common  man  were 
doing  the  same  thing.  We  think  of  the  dangers 
through  which  he  has  passed,  as  if  he  were 
made  of  iron  and  had  no  tears  to  shed  ;  so 
when  he  weeps,  it  is  all  the  more  beautiful 
to  us. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

SORROW  OF  DIFFERENT  RAGES— THE  SORROW  THAT 
IS  ENGENDERED  BY  THE  BODY— LAWS  OF  SORROW 

OUR  first  inquiry  is  in  relation  to  the  sorroio 
of  different  races.  A  rude  people  will  gen- 
erally be  more  boisterous  in  their  sorrow  than 
a  cultivated  people.  There  is  not  that  self-com- 
mand with  the  one  that  there  is  with  the  other. 
The  rude  people  are  governed  more  by  feeling 
than  the  cultivated  are ;  hence  to  express  feeling 
with  intensity  is  quite  natural.  I  may  say  also 
that  the  Eastern  nations  are  more  impulsive  in 
their  sorrow  than  the  Western.  This  arises 
somewhat  from  temperament  and  custom.  It 
would  no  doubt  be  a  very  curious  study  to 
trace  out  the  influence  of  custom  upon  the  ex- 
pression of  the  feelings.  The  Oriental  practice 
of  wailing  at  funerals  may  be  kept  up,  simply 
because  it  is  a  kind  of  fashion  of  sadness. 
When  the  body  of  Jacob  was  carried  to  the 
land  of  Canaan,  there  to  be  buried,  we  read 


Inquiries  about  Soueow.  255 

that  the  Egyptians  '*  mourned  with  a.  great  and 
very  sore  lamentation.^^  It  is  not  to  be  sup- 
posed that  such  mourning  was  as  deep  as  it  ap- 
peared to  be.  The  father  of  the  second  man 
in  the  kingdom  had  died,  and  Egyptian  custom 
demanded  that  there  should  be  an  expression 
of  grief  sufficiently  great  to  match  with  this 
fact.  Herodotus  says  :  "  When  a  man  of  rank 
died,  all  the  females  of  his  family  covering 
their  faces  with  mud,  and  leaving  the  body  i"i 
the  house,  ran  through  the  streets,  girded  up, 
and  striking  their  bare  breasts  and  uttering 
loud  lamentations.  All  their  female  friends 
joined  them.  The  men  beat  their  breasts  in 
like  manner,  and  also  girded  up  their  dress.'^  * 
Dr.  Kane  calls  attention  to  a  kind  of  fashion  of 
sorrow  which  prevails  among  the  natives  of  the 
polar  regions.  ''There  is  a  singular  custom,'' 
he  says,  "which  I  have  noticed  here  as  well 
as  among  some  of  the  Asiatics,  and  which  has 
its  analogies  in  more  cultivated  centres.  I 
allude  to  the  regulated  formalities  of  mourning 
for  the  dead.  They  weep  according  to  system ; 
when  one  begins,  aU  are  expected  to  join,  and 
it  is  the  office  of  courtesy  for  the  most  distin- 


*  Quoted  in  Hengstenberg's  Egypt  and  the  Books  of  Moses,  p.  74 


■ 


256  Sorrow. 

guished  of  the  company  to  wipe  the  eyes  of  the 
chief  mourner.  They  often  assemble  by  con- 
cert for  a  general  weeping-match  ;  but  it  hap- 
pens sometimes  that  one  will  break  out  into 
tears  and  others  courteously  follow,  without 
knowing  at  first  what  is  the  particular  subject 
of  grief.  It  is  not,  however,  the  dead  alone 
who  are  sorrowed  for  by  such  a  company. 
Any  other  calamity  may  call  for  it  as  well: 
the  failure  of  a  hunt,  the  snapping  of  a  walrus- 
Une,  or  the  death  of  a  dog  Mrs.  Eider-duck 
once  looked  up  at  me  from  her  kolupsut  and 
burst  into  a  gentle  gush  of  woe.  I  was  not  in- 
formed of  her  immediate  topic  of  thought,  but 
with  remarkable  presence  of  mind  I  took  out 
my  handkerchief,  and,  after  wiping  her  eyes 
politely,  wept  a  few  tears  myself."  * 

A  sad  tone  of  voice  is  peculiar  to  certain 
races.  "A  stranger  in  Greece  or  the  East  is 
struck  at  once  by  a  certain  sadness  of  tone, 
amounting  at  times  almost  to  wailing,  which 
marks  the  speech  of  the  people,  and  especially 
of  the  women  of  the  lower  order.  Some  travel- 
lers have  ascribed  this  to  the  long  centuries 
of   humiliation   and   oppression   under   which 

*  Arctic  Explorations,  vol.  ii.  p.  117. 


Inquiries  about  Sorrow.  257 

women  have  groaned  in  the  East ;  but  I  think 
it  belongs  rather  to  the  races  than  to  the  sex  j 
for  it  is  not  altogether  confined  to  the  women : 
and,  besides,  something  of  the  same  sort  is 
found  among  the  most  primitive  and  simple 
tribes,  and  the  fact,  if  it  be  a  fact,  that  the  mu- 
sic of  ancient  Greece  and  Latium,  like  that  of 
most  Oriental  countries,  was  wholly  in  the 
minor  mode,  seems  to  confirm  this  view."  * 

I  do  not  think  that  passive  tribes  and  nations 
have  such  a  volume  of  sorrow  as  those  that  are 
positive.  Outwardly  they  may  seem  to  be  more 
sad,  but  inwardly  they  are  not.  To  whatever 
extent  manhood  is  weakened,  to  that  extent 
sorrow  is  weakened.  "  Let  a  race  be  crushed  for 
ages,  till  finally  all  desires  for  freedom  and  per- 
sonal advancement  are  extinguished,  in  that 
case  grief  will  run  low.  To  suffer  and  to  be 
oppressed  seems  natural.  An  unmanly  con- 
tentment takes  possession  of  the  soul.  Where 
a  higher  race  would  be  cut  to  the  heart,  a  low- 
er race  is  quiet  and  easy.  The  sorrow  of  the 
natural  feelings  may  be  as  strong  among  a  pas- 
sive people  as  among  a  positive,  because  those 
ties,  the  severing  of  which  causes  the  sorrow, 


*  Marsh,  Lectures  on  the  English  Language,  p.  285. 


I 


258  Sorrow. 

are  common  to  all.  The  relation  of  husband 
and  wife,  parent  and  child,  brother  and  sister, 
is  universal.  Pain  and  death  also  strike  every 
human  being.  The  positive  races  have  a 
greater  number  of  sorrows  than  the  passive,  just 
because  their  energy  carries  them  farther  and 
gives  them  a  wider  experience. 

Is  it  not  a  fact  that  the  great  modern  nations 
are  more  sorrowful  than  the  ancient  ?  We  cer- 
tainly believe  that  they  are.  The  field  of  mod- 
ern thought  is  quite  extended.  The  amount 
of  light  that  is  pouring  in  upon  nations  increases 
sadness.  Melancholy  is  a  sign  of  intelligence. 
It  is  a  very  striking  fact  that  suicides  are  more 
common  in  civilized  countries  than  in  those  that 
are  not  civiHzed.  Cannibals  may  kill  one  an- 
other, but  they  do  not  kill  themselves.  They 
have  not  the  pain  and  perplexity  of  soul  which 
lead  to  self-murder.  The  extent  of  insanity 
also  among  civilized  men  is  quite  a  noticeable 
characteristic.  A  hidden  sadness  is  certainly 
at  work.  Hurry  and  worry  mark  the  present. 
The  excessive  demands  of  a  great  selfishness, 
the  sharp  competitions  and  conflicts  of  trade, 
the  fevered  life  and  thought  of  the  age,  have  a 
tendency  to  increase  sorrow.  The  wonderful 
extent  of  novel-reading  develops  a  cheap  sad- 


Inquiries  about  Sokeow.  259 

ness.  At  present  also  there  is  a  great  move- 
ment of  Christian  ideas.  These  are  looking  iu 
upon  souls  and  troubling  them  ;  troubling  them 
because  they  want  them  not,  though  feehng 
that  they  cannot  do  altogether  without  them. 
These  ideas  are  facing  all  our  philosophies,  and 
keeping  up  a  most  vigorous  realism  amid  the 
clouds  of  human  opinion  and  sin.  In  this  v/ay 
grief  and  goodness  appear,  even  as  the  moon 
is  both  light  and  dark.  The  Christian  concep- 
ion  of  God  and  the  God-man,  of  the  soul  with 
its  fall  and  recovery,  of  human  probation  as 
confined  exclusively  to  time,  of  eternal  death 
and  eternal  life,  must  affect  depraved  natures 
and  sadden  them,  as  they  could  not  be  affected 
and  saddened  by  the  training  of  ancient  thne«. 
Everything  would  seem  to  be  greater  at  pres- 
sent, — greater  holiness  and  greater  sin,  greater 
joy  and  greater  sorrow. 

Our  second  inquiry  relates  to  the  body  as 
tending  to  generate  sorrow.  There  may  be  here- 
ditary evils  in  the  body  which  lead  to  sadness. 
I  should  suppose  that  the  children  of  drunken 
parents  would  have  a  degree  of  melancholy 
about  them.  In  those  families  also  along  which 
travel  vestiges  of  insanity  there  must  be  sad- 
ness.    Even  a  body  which  seems  to  be  healthy 


2G0  Sorrow. 

may  have  that  withm  it  which  darkens  and  de- 
presses the  mind.  As  there  are  movements  of 
the  soul  which  he  beneath  the  plane  of  con- 
sciousness, so  there  may  be  causes  of  sadness 
in  the  body  which  no  physiologist  has  yet 
been  able  to  discover.  There  are  some  things, 
'however,  which  we  know  with  certainty.  The 
gloomy  influence  of  a  diseased  liver,  is  a  fact 
which  persons  have  been  acquainted  with  for  a 
very  long  period.  The  word  melancholy — 
meaning  black  bile — is  a  proof  of  that.  What 
vast  numbers  of  people  are  inclined  to  look  on 
the  dark  side !  The  bad  liver  casts  a  shadow 
around  the  soul.  Depression  of  spirits  may 
also  spring  from  a  disordered  stomach.  A  dose 
of  medicine  or  a  day  of  fasting  will  quite  fre- 
quently brighten  the  mind  as  well  as  rectify 
the  body.  Too  much  food  is  stupefying  ;  yet 
too  little  food  has  not  by  any  means  a  good  in- 
fluence. Shipwrecked  sailors,  who  have  lost 
all  their  provisions,  sometimes  look  with  an  evil 
eye  upon  each  other  ;  and  mothers  in  the  strait- 
ness  of  a  siege  devour  their  offspring.  It  has 
been  noticed  by  travellers  that  Mohammedans 
during  their  great  fast  are  exceedingly  quarrel- 
some. Are  not  very  poor  people  who  live  in 
large  cities  irritable?     A  family  is  crowded  in- 


Inquiries  about  Soeeow.  261 

to  one  room,  the  air  is  vitiated,  the  light  is 
darkness,  the  food  is  insufficient, — hence  pee- 
vishness. The  children  quarrel  and  fight, — 
Both  soul  and  body  may  be  spoken  of  as 
ill-natured.  "When  there  is  too  much  hlood 
in  the  veins  of  the  head,  there  is  a  dull  pain  or 
great  depression  of  spirits,  and  the  feet  are  al- 
ways cold.  It  is  this  excess  of  blood  in  the 
veins  of  the  head  or  brain,  which  always  in- 
duces the  despondency  which  so  frequently 
causes  suicide.  When  this  is  attempted  by  cut- 
ting the  throat,  the  relief  is  instantaneous,  and 
the  victim  becomes  anxious  for  the  life  he  had 
just  attempted  to  destroy."  Nervousness  will 
start  melancholy  feelings.  The  person  is  weak, 
is  excited,  is  also  depressed.  There  is  no  abil- 
ity to  battle  with  opposition.  The  will  loses 
its  power.  There  is  a  want  of  self-control  and 
decision.  A  course  will  be  adopted  one  hour, 
and  changed  the  next.  The  individual  sinks 
down  into  a  state  of  gloom  and  grief.  Ttie 
soul  staggers  on  the  borders  of  lunacy. 

It  is  necessary  that  I  should  state  also  that 
secret  vice  is  one  of  the  leading  causes  of  melan- 
chol}^  There  is  no  telling  how  many  minds 
are  sent  into  night  by  this  one  evil.  There  is 
most  urgent  need   that  an   alarm  should   be 


262  Sorrow. 

sounded.  ''According  to  the  uniform  testi- 
mony of  educated  medical  men  at  home  and 
abroad,  whose  office  it  is  to  superintend  those 
estabhshments  founded  for  the  restoration  of 
the  insane,  thousands  of  persons  languish  every 
year  in  these  institutions,  and  finally  die  in 
drivelling  idiocy  in  consequence  of  practices 
fallen  into  unwittingly,  and  eventually  habits 
formed  in  early  youth,  without  the  slightest 
idea  of  their  being  immoral  or  physically  de- 
structive." '*  The  writer  knew  a  gentleman 
of  wealth,  who  had  two  sons  ;  the  elder  was 
sent  to  a  distant  institution  of  learning  at  the 
age  of  eighteen  years.  He  was  a  youth  of 
manly  bearing  and  of  high  promise.  His  at- 
tainments were  unusual  for  one  of  his  age  ;  an 
estate  was  coming  to  him  at  his  majority,  which 
would  yield  him  a  revenue  of  twenty- three 
thousand  dollars  a  year.  His  health  began  to 
decline.  This  was  traced  to  practices  into 
wfiich  he  had  been  inveigled,  of  which  no  one 
could  know  anything  but  himself.  He  was  ig- 
norant of  their  tendencies,  and  continued  them 
until  the  morning  debilitations  became  a  drain 
so  exhaustive  to  the  vital  powers,  that  he  grew 
pale  and  thin  and  nervous.  In  a  few  months 
his  bodily  elasticity  was  gone.     In  p.' ace  of  the 


Inquiries  about  Soekow.  233 

habitual  courtesy,  the  high-bred  deportment, 
and  the  joyous  abandon  which  once  character- 
ized him  in  a  remarkable  degree,  there  was  a 
listlessness  of  demeanor,  a  slovenliness  of  per- 
son and  dress,  with  a  settled  shade  of  deep 
melancholy.  A  mental  depression  seized  upon 
him,  which  it  seemed  impossible  to  remove  by 
the  amusements  and  diversions  which  common- 
ly have  great  attractions  for  the  young.  In 
short,  he  became  idiotic  eventually,  lost  the 
power  of  speech,  and  now  for  nineteen  years 
has  not  uttered  a  single  word,  nor  is  it  at  all 
likely  that  he  ever  will,  although  thousands  are 
spent  every  year  in  vain  efforts  for  his  restora- 
tion." * 

There  is  no  doubt  also  much  sachtcss  among 
religious  people  which  springs  from  a  diseased 
body.  By  not  knowing  this,  mistaken  causes 
are  fixed  upon.  Many  good  men  trace  the 
whole  of  their  inward  sadness  to  a  weak  fixith, 
to  depravity  of  heart  to  the  hiding  of  God's 
face  ;  while  certainly  a  part  of  it  ought  to  be 
traced  to  a  body  that  is  out  of  order.  As 
showing  how  religious  states  may  be  modified 
by  ill  health,  the  following  experience  of  Dr. 

*  Dr.  Hall,  Treatise  on  Sleep,  p.  143. 


264  Sorrow. 

Beecher  may  be  noted:  *'I  have  experienced/' 
he  says,  ''for  some  days  a  melancholy  head- 
ache. It  spoils  all  attempts  at  prayer,  and 
every  other  duty ;  for,  while  it  continues,  I  see 
no  subject  except  on  the  darkest  side.  It  dis- 
qualifies me  for  reading,  meditation,  or  writing, 
or  even  conversation.  But  this  is  not  all.  If 
I  ever  felt  any  religion,  it  seems  to  have  for- 
saken me.  I  cannot  feel.  God  is  distant.  I 
cannot  realize,  cannot  get  into  his  presence. 
At  times  I  fear  I  have  never  known  him."  *  A 
deeper  depression  than  this  characterized  Isaac 
Milner,  Dean  of  Carlisle.  He  remarks :  "Though 
I  have  endeavored  to  discharge  my  duty  as  well 
as  I  could,  yet  sadness  and  melancholy  of  heart 
stick  close  by  and  increase  upon  me.  I  tell 
nobody,  but  I  am  very  much  sunk  indeed,  and 
I  wish  I  could  have  the  relief  of  weeping  as  I 
used  to.  My  views  have  of  late  been  exceed- 
ingly dark  and  distressing ;  in  a  word,  Almighty 
God  seems  to  hide  his  face.  I  intrust  the  se- 
cret hardly  to  any  earthly  being.  I  know  not 
what  will  become  of  me.  There  is  doubtless  a 
good  deal  of  bodily  affection  mingled  with  this, 
but  it  is  not  all  so.    I  bless  God,  however,  that 

*  Autobiography,  vol.  i.  p.  108. 


f 


Inquiries  about  Sorrow.  265 

I  never  lose  sight  of  the  cross  ;  and  though  I 
should  die  without  seeing  any  personal  interest 
in  the  Redeemer's  merits,  I  think,  I  hope,  that 
I  should  be  found  at  his  feet.  My  door  is  bolt- 
ed at  the  time  of  my  writing  this,  for  I  am  full 
of  tears.'*  *  When  we  know  that  this  distin- 
guished man  had  ''  spasms  in  his  stomach,  se- 
vere and  uninterrupted  headaches,  oppression 
of  the  breath,  broken  slumbers,"  it  is  not  sur- 
prising that  a  most  painful  sadness  weighed 
down  his  spirit. 

The  third  inquiry  before  us  relates  to  the 
laws  of  sorrow.  Our  statement  may  not  con- 
tain the  whole  truth.  It  may  suggest,  how- 
ever, to  some  minds,  the  very  conditions  that 
are  needed. 

The  first  law  of  sorrow  is,  that  sadness  will 
arise  from  the  sense  of  loss.  As  showing  the 
working  of  this  law,  these  points  may  be  noted  : 
1.  We  have  sorrow  from  the  loss  of  property. 
In  whatever  way  the  property  has  been  lost  there 
will  be  a  feeling  of  sadness.  If  one  loses  a  par- 
ticular situation,  or  the  means  of  gaining  a  live- 
lihood, he  will  be  cast  down  in  his  mind.  2.  Los- 
ing an  opportunity  will  breed  sorrow.     Fail- 

•  Quoted  in  Man,  Moral  and  Physical,  by  Dr.  Jones,  p.  85. 


2G6  SoEROW. 

ing  to   improve   a  particular   occasion,  failing 
to  meet  a  person  at  a  time  specified,  failing 
to  receive  a  letter  of  great  importance,  or  to  be 
in  time  for  the  boat  or  the  cars,  will  engender 
sadness.     No  small  amount  of  sorrow  arises  in 
life   from   disappointment.     3.    The   loss  of  a 
pleasure  will  sadden  the  mind.     Men  love  hap- 
piness ;  therefore  they  sigh  when  it  is  gone. 
The  gambler  is  restless  when  he  does  not  have 
his  accustomed  excitement,  the  drunkard  when 
he  does  not  have  his  cup,  and  the  religious  man 
when  he    does   not   have  his   peace  and  joy. 
4.  To  lose  the  respect  of  men  troubles  us.     All 
love  to  be  well  thought  of.    The  feeling  is  nat- 
ural.    The  child  would -rather  see  a  smile  than 
a  frown.     He  who  cares  for  no  one  is  a  bad 
man.     5.  The  loss  of  friends  starts  a  painful 
sadness.     Those  we  love  have  departed.    They 
have  entered  the  unknown  land.    We  see  them 
not  on  any  day.    In  a  cloud  we  travel  towards 
the  regions  of  eternity. 

The  second  law  of  sorrow  is,  that  sadness 
will  arise  from  the  fact  of  evil.  The  evil  may 
be  moral  or  it  may  not, — the  feeling  of  sorrow 
will  be  of  a  kind  to  match  it.  1.  Sin  in  our 
soul  produces  sadness.  There  is  certainly  a 
Badness  which  exists  independently  of  the  will. 


i 


Inquiries  about  Soreow.  267 

From  the  very  nature  of  the  human  spirit  it 
must  lament  in  the  midst  of  its  evil.  Let  a 
man  deny  all  sin,  deny  his  own  personality  and 
the  personality  of  God,  he  will  yet  have  a  sigh 
wandering  through  his  soul  which  he  cannot 
deny.  2.  "We  sorrow  because  we  have  com- 
mitted sin.  This  is  the  sorrow  of  penitence. 
It  may  be  a  question  whether  every  fallen  be- 
ing will  be  the  subject  of  natural  repentance 
sometime  or  another.  My  impression  is  that 
they  will.  In  the  very  depths  of  perdition 
men  will  repent ;  but  it  wih  be  the  repent- 
ance of  death.  Judas  had  sorrow  because 
of  his  great  crime  ;  but  there  was  no  god- 
liness in  it.  3.  When  I  see  a  man  doing 
wrong  I  am  grieved.  The  sin  itself  troubles 
me.  4.  When  I  exercise  pity  towards  a  wick- 
ed man,  that  pity  has  in  it  an  element  of  sor- 
row. A  mother  receiving  her  wayward  son 
and  weeping  over  him,  shows  the  working  of 
this  feeling.  5.  An  intellectual  evil  will  cause 
sorrow.  If  I  have  forgotten  something  which 
I  wanted  very  much  to  remember,  I  am  great- 
ly pained.  An  error  in  judgment,  as  telling  a 
man  the  wrong  way  to  a  place,  will  end  in  sor- 
row when  the  error  is  discovered.  6.  Certain 
evil  results  of  an  act,  when  there  was  not  the 


268  Sorrow. 

least  intention  of  doing  evil,  will  cause  sorrow. 
If  in  attempting  to  shoot  a  wild  beast  I  kill  a 
man,  not  knowing  that  the  man  was  there,  I 
have  the  most  bitter  grief.  7.  Sadness  will 
arise  from  bodilj^  evil.  We  know  that  depres- 
sion of  spirits  may  spring  from  a  diseased  state 
of  the  system.  If  in  any  way  also  the  body 
has  been  injured,  we  feel  sad  because  of  that 
injury.  8.  Some  outward  material  evils  will 
engender  melancholy  ;  as  cloudy  weather,  an 
unhealthy  place  where  one  is  living,  an  uncom- 
fortable house,  and  many  other  things  that  may 
be  thought  of. 

These  are  the  two  laws  of  sorrow ;  all  that  I 
can  discover.  The  illustrations  of  each  law 
might  be  multiplied,  but  that  is  unnecessary. 
I  have  sorrow  from  loss  apart  from  the  idea  of 
evil ;  and  I  have  sorrow  from  evil  apart  from 
the  idea  of  loss.  Sometimes,  however,  both 
ideas  are  found  together, — as  when  ten  thous- 
and dollars  have  been  stolen  from  me  by  my 
own  son.  Here  money  is  lost  and  evil  commit- 
ted. I  can  think  of  no  sorrow  that  may  not  be 
classified  under  the  one  or  the  other  of  these 
laws. 


CHAPTER  XTII. 

THE  BEARING  OF  SORROW  TIFON  CERTAIN   OF  THE 
HIGHER  THEMES  OF  EXISTENCE. 

SORROW  in  a  fallen  soul  will  not  be  clearly 
understood  unless  that  soul  is  viewed  in 
its  relation  to  the  Deity.  Man  was  made  for 
Grod.  This  ultimate  fact  must  be  distinctly  ap- 
prehended. Blessedness  is  found  when  the 
soul  acts  in  unison  with  the  Divine  Being.  Sin 
is  a  departure  from  Grod.  A  painful  state  of 
mind  arises  because  of  this  departure.  The 
feelings  of  guilt  and  remorse  do  not  express 
the  painful  state  to  which  we  here  refer.  It  is 
back  of  these  and  deeper  than  these.  There  is 
a  soul  sadness  that  does  express  it  ;  a  sadness 
which  is  nothing  but  the  immortal  nature  in 
trouble  because  God  is  lost.  There  is  scarcely 
anything  that  is  more  suggestive  than  a  human 
sigh.  It  is  the  breathing  of  a  spirit  that  has 
wandered  away, — the  lament  of  a   God-made 

//^      OP  THE 

fUiri7ERSIT7l 


270  Sorrow. 

soul  in  the  midst  of  its  exile.  The  sigh  is 
really  a  painful  prayer  that  is  travelling  bhndly 
towards  Heaven  ;  a  prayer  which  the  will  can 
neither  guide  nor  stop.  We  never  can  under- 
stand the  sorrow  of  a  lapsed  nature  if  we  at- 
tempt to  scan  it  from  the  summit  of  any  of  the 
faculties.  In  the  very  nature  of  fahen  mind  is 
found  the  sensation  of  sorrow.  We  must  think 
of  the  soul  as  an  indivisible  spiritual  substance, 
and  that  spiritual  substance  crushed  and  weary. 
Sin  is  a  wound  j  sadness  is  the  pain  that  results 
from  it. 

Let  it  be  carefully  observed  also  that  this 
sad  pain^  which  differs  from  all  others,  may  he 
realized  at  any  moment  of  life.  Let  a  man  in 
the  midst  ol  pleasure  and  gay  companionship 
stop  for  a  single  instant  and  look  within,  and  at 
that  instant  he  will  be  conscious  of  a  pain  of 
soul.  One  may  work  or  be  idle,  may  go  abroad 
or  stay  at  home,  may  strive  to  gain  knowledge 
or  be  content  with  ignorance,  may  seek  honors 
or  wealth — the  pain  of  the  human  spirit  remains 
as  a  constant  fact.  Not  only  is  this  true,  but 
equally  true  is  it  that  the  saint  differs  but  little 
from  the  sinner  as  far  as  this  sad  characteristic 
is  concerned.  Let  a  Christian  man  go  back  of 
all  his   benevolent   activity,    communion   with 


The  Bearing  of  Sorrow.  271 

God,  holiness  of  heart,  and  he  will  find  that 
the  sin-crushed  spirit  is  in  a  state  of  suffering. 
At  the  close  of  the  happiest  hour  of  life,  yea, 
during  the  continuance  of  the  happiness,  if  the 
soul  will  but  turn  in  upon  itself,  the  pain  is 
felt.  Even  if  one  awakes  out  of  a  deep  sleep 
and  instantly  scans  the  soul,  the  misery  is  there. 
Man  lies  down  upon  his  bed  at  night  with  a 
sigh,  and  he  arises  in  the  morning  with  the 
same  state  of  mind  which  he  had  when  he 
retired.  The  very  dreams  are  tinged  with  sad- 
ness, and  the  brightest  visions  of  hope  are 
shaded  by  the  standing  clouds  that  overhang 
the  sinful  soul. 

That  Christianity  adds  to  the  happiness  of 
those  who  receive  it  is  certain.  The  quieting 
of  the  troubled  conscience,  the  joy  that  springs 
from  pure  emotion,  the  void  that  in  part  is 
filled,  the  peace  with  God,  the  hope  of  heaven, 
are  so  many  streams  of  Christian  happiness. 
But  it  should  be  known  by  all  that  native  sad- 
ness, just  like  indwelling  sin,  remains  as  the 
dark  background  of  the  inner  hfe  ;  and  that 
though  it  may  be  modified  somewhat  by  the 
power  and  presence  of  religious  principle,  it  is 
not  destroyed  till  the  last  hour  comes.  I  can 
only  look  upon  this  universal  anguish  of  soula 


272  Sorrow. 

as  retributive  in  its  nature.  Like  death  itself 
it  must  be  endured  by  all.  It  is  evidence  that 
the  whole  race  have  strayed  from  God  ;  and 
to  mark  the  greatness  of  the  offence,  the  sad- 
ness is  to  sweep  the  whole  of  life,  the  whole  of 
earthly  time  ;  the  infinite  atonement  of  Christ 
not  even  venturing  to  set  it  aside.  To  the 
good,  the  hour  of  victory  shall  come  with  its 
songs  ;  and  the  return  home  shall  be  greeted 
with  smiles,  and  words  of  joy  that  gladden  for- 
ever. The  bad,  weary  in  their  sin,  yet,  not  for- 
saking it,  shall  he  down  in  sorrow  j  and  the 
cloud  that  overhangs  them  shall  be  eternal. 
The  idea  oiperfedion  will,  in  certain  circum- 
stances, look  forth  upon  sorrow,  even  as  a  bright 
star  upon  the  darkness  of  night.  How  sadden- 
ing is  the  thought  that  we  pass  through  the 
whole  of  our  life  and  never  see  a  perfect  being ! 
The  idea  of  perfection  we  have  in  our  reason ; 
it  shines  there  like  a  lamp  of  Grod  ;  but  every 
man  w^e  meet  is  struck  with  shi.  The  sight  of 
so  much  hnperfection  is  oppressive.  Always 
beholding  depravity  and  ruin  the  heart  sickens. 
We  seem  compelled  to  walk  along  a  shore  for- 
ever, gazing  upon  WTCcks,  looking  upon  dead 
bodies  that  have  been  washed  upon  the  beach, 
upon  children  and  men  as  they  sit  shivering  in 


The  Bearing  of  Sorbow.  273 

the  cold.  We  turn  to  the  past.  "What  do  w6 
see?  Perfection  stands  like  a  heavenly  image 
at  the  beginning  of  our  race.  But  the  image 
falls  J  the  image  is  broken.  After  four  millen- 
niums of  years  perfection  returns  and  dwells 
with  men  for  a  season.  This  time  there  is  no 
fall ;  perfection  departs  as  pure  as  when  it 
came.  Aside  from  such  an  exception,  darkness 
reigns  over  all  the  earth.  A  perfect  man,  the 
true  descendant  of  the  first  man,  has  not  yet 
appeared.  Through  all  the  future,  in  the  best 
and  brightest  ages  of  the  future,  there  is  to  be 
no  moral  perfection.  This  world  during  its  en- 
tire history  is  to  be  characterized  by  sin.  Then 
to  think  of  souls  throughout  the  whole  of  an 
eternal  existence  beholding  nothing  but  imper- 
fection. Only  the  splendors  of  perfection  on 
the  last  day  to  deepen,  by  the  contrast,  the 
awful  gloom  of  the  everlasting  niglit. 

Perfection  is  an  ultimate  idea.  We  can 
think  of  it  better  tlian  w^e  can  express  it. 
Tlie  perfect  we  sa}'  is  the  complete,  it  is  tlie 
finished.  This  is  the  Bible  meaning  of  the 
term.  ''When  that  which  is  j^eifect  is  come, 
then  that  which  is  in  ])art  shall  he  done  axcayP 
A  piece  of  work  that  is  only  j^artly  finished  is 
imperfect.    There  must  be  wholeness.    A  thing 


274  SoEROW. 

must  be  as  it  ought  to  be.  The  Hebrew  lan- 
guage, with  its  simple  past  smdfuticre,  is  signifi- 
cant. The  past  tense  holdmg  up  the  idea  of 
perfection  ;  the  future  tense  the  idea  of  hnper- 
fection.  A  present  and  a  future  are  strictly 
imperfect, — the  act  is  not  yet  finished.  Then, 
too,  a  perfection  that  is  to  be  will  cJieer  us,  while 
a  perfection  that  is  lost  will  sadden  us.  We 
therefore  look  forward,  rather  than  backward. 
The  architect  who  has  spent  months  in  drawing 
out  the  plan  of  a  palace  will  be  pleased  if  it 
appears  to  him  what  it  should  be  ;  and  when 
he  sees  the  building  in  process  of  erection,  and 
one  part  is  made  to  fit  into  another  with  the 
utmost  exactness,  a  feeling  of  joy  is  his  ;  and 
still  more  is  he  delighted  when  he  beholds  the 
entire  structure  finished  according  to  his  plan. 
The  skillful  gardener  no  doubt  derives  much 
pleasure  from  the  beauty  and  order  that  belong 
to  his  workmanship.  The  fiirmer  has  a  feeling 
of  quiet  joy  as  he  walks  over  his  fields  and 
sees  everything  approaching  maturity.  The 
painter  has  a  glow  of  pleasure  from  the  fact 
that  his  mental  picture  has  taken  shape  on  the 
canv^as.  The  same  feeling  of  joy  thrills  the 
orator,  the  writer,  the  Christian,  as  they  ap- 
proach perfection  in  their  several  spheres.    The 


The  Bearing  of  Sorrow.  275 

thought,  therefore,  is  finely  adapted  to  the  sor- 
rowful spirit.  There  is  a  way  to  reach  perfec- 
tion. 

Thefijcsd  also  has  great  power  to  steady  the 
agitated  mind.  The  fleeting,  the  changing,  the 
dying,  deepen  the  feeling  of  sorrow ;  hence  the 
value  of  that  which  abides.  Much  of  what  be- 
longs to  the  present  life  is  changeable.  A 
mighty  array  of  different  events  crowd  the 
years  of  a  lifetime.  The  changes  of  the  clouds, 
the  weather  and  the  wind,  form  a  kind  of  ty- 
pology of  the  existing  state  of  man.  The 
ocean  is  a  symbol  of  the  human  race.  The 
whole  moving  world  seems  like  a  show,  an 
ever-shifting  panorama.  If  it  were  possible 
for  us  to  look  upon  every  human  being  at  once, 
and  to  keep  seeing  them  for  a  day,  a  week,  a 
year,  the  sight  would  be  sufficient  to  throw  the 
soul  into  a  complete  storm  of  sorrow.  There 
are  mortal.men  who  are  absolutely  stripped  of 
everything.  Grod  and  goodness,  friends  and 
friendships,  have  vanished  away,  leaving  them 
as  solitary  voyagers  upon  a  sea  forever.  There 
must  be  a  scene  of  being  where  stability  is  a 
prime  characteristic.  That  which  will  abide, 
eternally  abide,  is  demanded.  The  fixed  and 
the  great  are  apt  to  go  together :  Rocks  that 


276  Sorrow. 

stand  forth  in  the  midst  of  ocean  ;  mountains 
that  will  keep  their  place  till  the  fires  of  the 
last  day  consume  them  ;  the  throne  of  God  ; 
God  himself  The  purpose  and  promise  of  the 
Infinite  remain.  A  divine  redemption  is  fixed ; 
that  constitutes  an  eternal  refuge.  Faith,  hope, 
love,  will  never  fail. 

Silence  has  a  charm  about  it  to  a  sor7'owful 
mind.  When  the  spirit  is  in  a  downcast  state 
noise  irritates.  Quietness  is  like  a  soothing 
balm  to  the  troubled  mind.  The  stillness  of  a 
beautiful  day  seems  to  be  suggestive  to  a  soul 
that  is  sick  and  weary  ;  so  also  is  the  stillness 
of  a  beautiful  night.  There  is  a  tendency  to 
meditate.  The  soul  is  sounded  to  a  greater 
depth  than  usual.  Unbounded  emotions  come 
forth  with  new  power.  There  is  an  element  of 
far-reachingness.  Silence  makes  one  think  of 
the  unknown  and  the  infinite.  We  desire  to 
keep  thinking  ;  there  is  a  spell ;  to  hold  on  to 
the  vast  and  the  limitless  is  pleasing.  We  can- 
not speak  of  silence  as  joyful.  It  inclines  rather 
to  a  soft,  dreamlike  melancholy,  which  the  sad 
spirit  loves  and  wants  to  continue.  It  is  not 
strange  that  certain  religious  characters  should 
have  adopted  a  still,  contemplative  life.  N"o 
doubt  the  matter  has  been  carried  to  an  ex- 


I 


The  Bearing  of  Sorrow.  277 

treme.    But  yet,  if  the  piety  of  the  present  age 
would  have  depth,   tone,  spirituahty,  it  must 
ally  itself  more  than  it  has  done  with  a  quiet 
thoughtfulness.     The  outward  and  the  sensa- 
tional are  bending  the  soul  down  to  a  shallow 
existence.     We  are  not  to  forget  that  even  the 
Son  of  God  was  accustomed  to  steal  away  from 
the  noise  and  presence  of  men  that  he  might 
commune  with  the  supersensible  and  the  divine. 
What  silences  there  are  throughout  the  uni- 
verse !       Innumerable    worlds    are    sweeping 
through  space  at  this  moment  without  a  sin- 
gle jar  or  sound.     Gravitation  is  acting  every- 
where, and  yet  it  is  silent.     Great  oceans  of 
light  are  spreading  over  immensity,  but  these 
are  silent  oceans.     Movement  suflBlcient  there 
is  not  to  awaken  an  infant  or  insect.     Then 
think  of  the  silent  march  of  life.      We   are 
prompted  almost  to  call  it  divine.    Simply  look 
at  vegetation  as  it  comes  foi^th  in  the  spring, 
and  perfects  itself  in  the  summer.     The  whole 
world  is  apparelled  as  if  to  meet  God,  yet  there 
is  not  a  whisper.     Silence  suggests  tlie  idea  of 
the  spiritual.     What  power  there  is  in  mind! 
what  stillness  !    God  is  silent.     Human  sadness 
finds  here   a  home.      Turmoil  and  noise  flee 
away.    Excitement  subsides.    The  soul  rests. 


278  SoRKow. 

Some  persons  while  a,gitated  with  deep  sor- 
row will  plunge  into  an  indefinable  abyss,  hop- 
ing to  escape  there  the  agony  that  torments  them. 
The  common  principles  of  Christian  belief  do 
not  satisfy  them  ;  objections  have  assumed  a 
formidable  shape  ;  so  they  cut  loose  from  the 
redemptive  and  divine,  and  float  they  know 
not  where.  These  unhappy  beings  have  an 
idea  of  an  infinite  justice  and  mercy  ;  but  rather 
than  look  closely  at  such  characteristics,  they 
make  choice  of  the  indefinite,  and  so  lose  them- 
selves there  as  a  substitute  for  infinite  realities. 
It  is  sufficiently  evident  that  they  need  God, 
but  just  as  evident  that  they  do  not  want  him. 
Certain  souls  are  governed  by  an  unconscious 
pantheism.  They  seem  to  have  an  inclination 
to  drift  away  from  personal  identity  and  a  per- 
sonal God.  The  divine  idea  and  the  human 
idea  they  have  in  their,  minds  ;  but  by  a  tran- 
scendental chemistry  they  would  mingle  the 
two  together,  and  then  lose  themselves  in  the 
mist  that  spreads  around  them.  I  presume 
there  are  persons  who  can  give  no  exact  ac- 
count of  the  region  where  they  find  themselves. 
They  inhabit  the  territory  of  the  unknown 
In  the  blind  search  for  relief  they  have  reached 
that  land.    Whether  they  have  found  what  they 


The  Beaking  of  Soekow.  279 

want,  they  can  answer.  The  Ukehhood  is  iliat 
a  certam  uneasy  sensation  goes  with  them 
where  they  go.  They  would  rather  not  be 
annoyed  by  any  sharp  arguments. 

Isaac  Taylor  thoughtfully  remarks:  ''Ti.  is 
common  to  human  nature  (we  need  not  hero 
stay  to  inquire  why)  to  throw  itself  off  from 
the  familiar  ground  of  proximate  and  intelligi- 
ble causes,  and  to  seek  such  as  are  abstruse, 
difficult,  and  ultimate,  whenever  it  is  agitated 
by  undefined  and  powerful  emotions.  We  have 
in  this  fact  one  of  the  sources  of  superstition  ; 
and  as  it  is  in  a  sense  true  that  fear  is  the 
mother  of  the  gods,  so,  in  a  sense,  it  is  also 
true  that  anxiety,  despondency,  and  the  impa- 
tience of  pain  and  sorrow,  are  teachers  of  meta- 
physics. It  may  be  doubted  whether  certain 
profound  speculations  would  at  all  have  sug- 
gested themselves  to  the  human  mind,  if  life 
had  been  a  course  of  equable  prosperity.  It 
may  be  questioned  whether  the  inhabitants  of 
worlds  unvisited  by  evil — how  large  soever 
their  intelligence  may  be — have  ever  thought 
of  asking,  What  is  virtue  ?  or,  What  is  the  lib- 
erty of  a  moral  agent  ?''  "  The  conflict  of  hope 
and  fear  in  the  heart,  and  the  assaults  that  are 
made  upon  hope  by  the  scepticism  or  the  mock- 


280  SoEEOW. 

ery  of  those  around  us,  impel  us  naturally,  yet 
unwisely,  to  throw  up  the  good  and  proper  evi- 
dence which,  though  it  be  simple,  and  intelhgi- 
ble,  and  sufficient,  does  not  open  to  the  mind 
a  depth  profound  enough  to  give  room  for  the 
mighty  tossings  of  the  soul  in  its  hour  of  dis- 
tress." *'  When  this  unhappy  mistake  has  been 
committed,  two  courses  offer  themselves ; — the 
one  is  to  beat  up  and  down  through  the  regions 
of  night  whereupon  we  have  entered,  until  we 
find,  or  fancy  that  we  have  found,  solid  footing, 
and  discern  a  glimmering  of  light : — the  other 
course  is  by  a  buoyant  effort  of  good  sense,  to 
spring  up  at  once  from  the  abyss,  and  effect 
our  return  to  the  trodden  and  familiar  surface 
of  things.'*  * 

We  may  here  notice  the  power  of  the  unseen 
during  a  season  of  sorrow.  The  sorrow  may 
have  been  caused  by  the  removal  of  some  visi- 
ble object.  By  a  mental  process  that  object  is 
made  to  stand  before  the  soul.  Is  it  not  a 
principle  of  our  nature  that  whatsoever  gene- 
rates grief  is  fastened  upon  by  the  mind? 
There  can  be  no  question  about  this.  Whether 
the  object  was  loved  or  hated  that  occasioned 

*  Logic  in  Theology,  p.  24. 


The  Beaeing  of  Soerow.  281 

the  sorrow,  will  make  no  difference  ;  it  is  pres- 
ent to  the  soul.  The  property  that  I  lost,  the 
man  who  led  me  astray,  the  friend  or  the  child 
whom  I  shall  never  see  again,  are  thought  of. 
Then,  again,  the  dejected  spirit  is  inclined  to 
go  off  in  search  of  objects,  both  bright  and 
dark,  that  with  these  it  may  commune.  Sor- 
row quite  frequently  acts  the  part  of  a  malig- 
nant magician,  and  dismal  pictures  are  made  to 
surround  the  soul.  The  troop  of  evils  will 
sometimes  march  off  to  a  point  where  they  take 
their  stand  ;  and  the  mind  will  keep  looking  in 
that  direction.  Cloud  may  also  unite  with  cloud, 
deepening  evermore,  until  the  disconsolate  spi- 
rit sits  down  in  the  midst  of  a  tabernacle  of 
darkness.  By-and-by,  however,  an  opening  of 
light  is  made.  Visions  of  good  appear.  A 
loved  friend  living  at  some  remote  place  is  re- 
membered. Benefits  of  various  kinds  are 
known  to  exist.  These  objects,  though  distant 
and  unseen,  are  brought  near  to  the  mental 
eye.  Prospects  brighten  ;  there  is  a  feeling  of 
pleasure.  Good  that  is  real  holds  out  the  hand 
to  a  good  that  is  imagined.  The  volume  of 
bright  possibilities  is  opened.  A  page  here  and 
there  is  read.  The  spirit  has  more  elasticity. 
A  new  cycle  of  life  begins. 


282  SOBEOW. 

The  unseen  in  a  higher  sense  influences  a 
certain  class  of  minds.  There  is  the  whole  of 
the  supernatural — a  wide  realm — into  which 
the  drooping  spirit  will  enter  at  one  side  or  the 
other.  Even  if  sadness  walks  hand  in  hand 
with  superstition,  a  phase  of  the  supernatural 
is  there  still.  Dreams,  omens,  fortunate  occur- 
rences, unearthly  sights  and  sounds,  visitations 
of  unseen  creatures  and  help  from  (xod,  be- 
speak the  idea  of  the  supernatural.  Eternity ! — •' 
what  a  thought  that  is.  Is  there  not  something 
about  sorrow  that  makes  the  everlasting  more 
natural  to  the  mind  tnan  it  usually  is  ?  Do  we 
not  find  it  easier  to  speak  of  the  future  life  to 
a  man  in  trouble  than  we  do  to  a  man  in  pros- 
perity !  Has  there  not  been  a  cutting  away 
and  a  smoothing  down,  so  that  there  is  a  more 
open  pathway  for  the  eternal?  It  seems  so. 
Evidently  the  spiritual  world  and  the  world  of 
sense  are  now  closer  together.  As  ships  on  a 
dark  night  will  sometimes  sail  hard  by  the 
land,  so  during  the  dark  night  of  sorrow  we 
are  coasting  beside  eternity.  If  a  suitable 
vision  were  ours,  we  could  see  residents  of  the 
everlasting  state  quite  near  us,  even  as  men 
from  a  vessel  see  men  upon  a  shore.  It  may 
be,  however,  that  some  of  the  inhabitants  of 


The  Bearing  of  Sorrow.  283 

eternity  see  us  though  we  cannot  see  them. 
Their  sharp  penetrating  eye  may  behold  us  at 
our  work  or  at  our  worship  as  the  case  may  be. 
Actions  that  we  think  not  of,  may  be  seen  by 
these  celestial  creatures  as  they  line  the  hills 
and  the  shores  of  the  great  kingdom  of  eter- 
nity. 

There  is  an  idea  that  goes  with  us  in  all  our 
wanderings,  and  which  casts  a  soft  radiance 
around  our  minds — I  refer  to  the  idea  of  an 
eternal  youth.  The  thought  is  beautiful,  and 
the  very  sound  of  it  is  exceedingly  pleasant. 
We  keep  repeating  the  words — keep  listening — 
thinking — cherishing  as  it  were  the  prolonged 
echo  of  a  hymn  sung  by  the  angels.  The  idea 
awakens  in  us  a  sigh  for  a  loftier  realm,  and 
for  a  purer  region  than  is  found  here.  It  may 
seem  strange  that  there  is  not  a  passage  in  any 
part  of  the  Bible  that  gives  us  a  direct  state- 
ment touching  an  immortal  youth.  It  is  only 
indirectly,  by  way  of  inference,  that  we  catch 
the  thought.  The  angels  who  were  seen  at  the 
sepulchre  of  Christ  were  called  young  men. 
They  appeared  as  such  ;  yet  thousands  of  years 
had  passed  away  since  their  creation.  The 
glorified  bodies  of  the  saints  must  always  have 
the  freshness  of  youth  about  them  from  the 


284'  Sorrow. 

fact  that  the}'  are  never  to  show  any  signs  of 
decay, — they  are  to  be  immortal  bodies.  We 
never  could  think  of  the  divine  man  as  appear- 
ing old.  Young  comparatively  he  was  when 
he  ascended  to  heaven,  and  young  he  will  be 
forever.  Eternal  youth  will  mark  all  his  fol- 
lowers. As  is  the  God-man,  so  will  be  the  re- 
deemed man.  As  far  as  the  Divine  Being  is 
concerned  he  has  no  age.  Time  with  him  there 
is  none.  Neither  beginning  nor  succession 
marks  his  self-sufficient  life.  The  only  ap- 
proach that  creatures  can  make  to  him  is  in 
the  fact  of  an  immortal  youth.  When  I  think 
of  the  country  that  has  no  night,  the  world 
that  has  no  winter,  the  people  that  have  no 
sin,  I  cannot  help  thinking  of  a  youthfulness 
that  abides  with  the  everlasting  years  of  God. 
The  crown  that  is  never  to  fade  and  the  wor- 
ship that  is  never  to  end  teach  as  much  as 
that. 

What  is  the  meaning  of  that  strange  fact  of 
our  race  that  all  want  to  he  thought  young? 
Why  is  it  that  all  want  to  live  a  long  time, 
yet  none  want  to  be  old?  Why  is  so  niuch 
done  to  restore  the  hair,  the  person  desiring  to 
destroy  the  signs  of  age  ?  •  Why  is  it  that  all 
are  pleased  if  they  are  judged  to  he  younger  than 


The  Bearing  of  Soerow.  285 

they  are,  yet  never  pleased  if  they  are  deemed 
older  than  they  are  ?  Are  these  phases  of  hu- 
man nature  mere  trifles,  having  no  meaning? 
Are  they  so  many  freaks  of  pride,  and  nothing 
mdre  ?  Pride  may  connect  itself  with  them, 
but  does  not  wholly  explain  them.  Even  the 
desire  to  be  thoughjb  wise  without  wisdom,  good 
without  goodness,  is  an  evidence  of  a  previous 
verdict  in  favor  of  both  wisdom  and  goodness. 
So  in  the  wish  to  be  thought  young  there  is  the 
hint  of  an  eternal  youth.  I  can  see  in  that 
^vish  the  vestige  of  a  better  time  that  has  been 
lost,  and  the  prophecy  of  a  better  time  that  is 
to  come.  A  few  rays  of  the  early  morning  of 
love  have  kept  close  beside  the  spirit  in  its 
straying,  have  lighted  a  few  of  its  steps  in  the 
midst  of  the  darkness,  and  have  smiled  upon  it 
a  little  in  the  midst  of  its  weariness  and  want. 
*'  I  shall  be  sorry  if  I  am  not  younger  to-mor- 
row than  to-day."  When  we  stand  far  up  on 
the  mountain  summits  of  heaven,  close  beside 
God,  we  shall  be  young.  How  the  idea  of  in- 
nocence lives  with  us  in  all  our  living.  Wicked 
as  we  are  we  cannot  forget  it.  It  seems  like 
the  vision  of  a  former  life,  and  the  morning- 
star  that  heralds  a  coming  day.  A  helpless  in- 
fant placed  in  the  arms  of  a  maniac  has  caused 


286  SoERow. 

him  to  shed  tears.  The  innocence  of  the  young 
immortal  touched  the  heart.  How  natural  and 
pleasant  for  us  to  look  back  to  the  years  when 
we  were  young.  The  great  disconteat  of  souls 
had  not  then  arisen,  and  the  clear  consciousness 
of  life  had  not  then  appeared.  We  played  as 
those  who  possessed  all  thij;igs,  and  fell  asleep 
at  night  without  the  dread  imagery  of  some 
dark  to-morrow.  It  has  been  said  that  "to 
want  a  star  is  the  beautiful  insanity  of  the 
young."  That  insanity  clings  to  us  all.  The 
aged  man  and  the  child,  the  good  and  the  bad, 
the  sick  and  the  well,  all  want  a  star.  We  sigh 
for  a  day  that  is  brighter  than  any  we  have 
seen,  for  a  home  that  has  in  it  no  evil  of  any 
kind,  for  eternal  vigor  and  youth  amidst  the 
heights  and  glories  of  the  Lord. 


CHAPTER  XYIII. 

SORROW  BECAUSE  OF  THE  SHADOWS  THAT  FALL 
UPON  US  FROM  THE  OTHER  LIFE. 

"  No  rainbow  colors  here,  or  silken  tale  ; 
But  solemn  counsels,  images  of  awe. 
Truths,  which  eternity  lets  fall  on  man 
With  double  weight."    .... 

Yoxma. 

THERE  are  sounds  and  sights  and  warning 
thoughts  which  make  men  look  around, 
as  if  some  strange  and  fearful  evil  were  coming 
on  the  wings  of  twilight  down  to  souls.  As 
voyagers  sailing  towards  an  unknown  land, 
seeing  fragments  of  wrecked  ships  and  signs  of 
danger,  are  afraid,  so  men  on  their  way  to 
eternity  are  anxious,  beholding  omens  which 
tell  of  gloom  and  misery.  What  person  is 
there  that  never  "had  a  troubled  dream  about 
death  or  the  great  judgment  day  ?  There  are 
presentiments  which  have  a  tendency  to  sadden 
the  mind.  Whether  these  be  thoughts  of  God 
or  thoughts  of  man,  makes  no  great  difference ; 


288  SoEEOw.     ^ 

they  do  affect  certain  natures.  *'Itis  related 
of  the  nonconformist  writer,  Isaac  Ambrose, 
that  he  had  such  a  striking  internal  intimation 
of  his  approaching  death,  that  he  went  round 
to  all  his  friends  to  bid  them  farewell.  When 
the  day  arrived  which  his  presentiments  indi- 
cated as  the  day  of  his  dissolution,  he  shut 
himself  up  in  his  room  and  died.  It  is  stated 
of  Pendergrast,  an  officer  in  the  Duke  of  Marl- 
borough's army,  that  he  had  a  strong  forebod- 
ing that  he  would  be  kiUed  on  a  certain  day. 
He  mentioned  his  conviction  to  others,  and 
even  made  a  written  memorandum  in  relation 
to  it.  And  the  event  was  such  as  he  had  fore- 
told it  would  be.  Henry  lY.,  of  France,  for 
some  weeks  previous  to  his  being  assassinated 
by  Ravaillac.  had  a  distinct  presentiment, 
which  he  mentioned  to  Sully  and  other  men  of 
his  time,  that  some  great  calamity  was  about 
to  befall  him."* 

I  presume  that  almost  every  man  has  a  cer- 
tain heaviness  of  spirit  just  because  an  immoiial 
existence  is  before  him.  Persons  are  depressed 
with  reference  to  this  very  point  without  know- 
ing the  cause  of  their  depression.  Next  to 
that  burden  upon  souls  because  God  is  lost,  is 

*  Upham's  Mental  Philosophy,  vol.  ii.  p.  392. 


Shadows  of  the  other  Life.  289 

that  other  burden  because  of  a  dark  and  mys- 
terious future.  The  inclination  of  fallen  natures 
to  turn  away  from  conceptions  of  eternity,  is 
sure  evidence  that  these  conceptions  are  not 
pleasing.  Even  those  who  pretend  not  to  be- 
lieve in  a  life  after  death  are  not  aware  how 
much  the  troublesome  nature  of  that  life  has 
influenced  them  in  forming  such  an  opinion  ; 
that  really  at  bottom  they  wanted  to  feel  easy, 
and  so  they  denied  the  immortality  of  man. 
Those  also  who  are  trying  to  convince  them- 
selves and  others  that  all  is  well  beyond  the 
grave  are  possibly  influenced  in  the  same  way  ; 
yet  the  thought  no  doubt  reaches  them  once  in 
a  while — I  wish  I  knew  whether  all  was  safe 
or  not. 

That  there  is  before  us  an  untried  existence 
awakens  in  the  mind  pensive  reflections.  We 
have  not  the  least  experience  touching  that 
great  futurity.  How  it  stands  off"  by  itself! 
No  being  have  we  ever  seen  who  has  been 
there.  The  whole  human  family  are  simply 
swept  forward  on  the  bosom  of  an  ocean ; 
trembling  that  that  ocean  will  be  crossed  so 
soon  ;  afraid  to  set  foot  on  that  unknown  land 
which  holds  fast  each  spirit  forever.  The 
mind  is  excited  because  of  the  endless  possi- 


290  SoKEOW. 

bilities.  I  am  not  surprised  that  mortals 
should  want  to  hve  here  for  a  very  long  period ; 
that  even  in  weakness  and  weariness  they 
would  rather  tarry  upon  the  earth  than  enter 
upon  realities  that  are  everlasting.  The  whole 
of  this  feehng  may  not  be  strictly  religious  ;  it 
has  the  merit,  however,  of  being  strictly  natu- 
ral. How  can  I,  a  creature  of  such  impotency, 
be  in  haste  to  enter  a  world  where  law  is  to 
try  me  as  I  never  have  been  tried !  I  am  now 
the  inhabitant  of  a  sphere  where,  along  with 
much  that  is  painful,  there  is  much  that  is 
pleasant.  I  have  some  knowledge  of  the  pres- 
ent state  of  things.  For  years  I  have  lived 
here,  and  for  years  other  men  have  lived  about 
me.  I  am  afraid  to  enter  a  system  that  is 
strictly  judicial. 

There  is  the  dread  possibility  of  being  lost.  I 
cannot  divest  myself  of  fear.  Millions  of  men 
are  just  in  the  same  state  that  I  am  in  myself. 
That  I  want  to  be  saved  is  true ;  but  am  I  quite 
sure  that  I  will  be  saved  ?  I  am  not.  Rousseau 
tells  us  how  he  felt  at  one  period  of  his  life. 
He  says  :  "In  the  midst  of  my  studies,  and  of 
a  life  as  innocent  as  man  could  lead,  notwith- 
standing every  persuasion  to  the  contrary,  the 
dread   of  hell  frequently    tormented    me.     I 


Shadows  of  the  Othee  Lite.  291 

asked  myself,  '  What  state  am  I  in  ?  Should  I 
die  at  this  instant,  must  I  be  damned  ?'  ''*  .... 
There  is  the  fact  also  that  every  man  has  in 
him  an  element  of  deception.  ^N'o  one  sees 
himself  just  as  he  is.  What  should  hinder, 
then,  that  a  soul  should  make  an  eternal  mis- 
take ?  Looking  at  the  point  in  this  way,  I 
wonder  not  that  so  many  go  through  life  with 
the  feehng  that  they  may  be  lost.  Even  with 
the  pious,  who  have  a  right  to  hope  without 
fear,  it  is  not  surprising  that  they  do  fear. 
The  best  of  men  are  imperfect.  Nothing  is 
done  with  that  intensity,  finish,  and  compass, 
which  the  law  of  God  demands.  TJie  fact  also 
of  a  depraved  state  of  mind  whose  vapors  con- 
fuse the  judgment ;  the  conception  that  every- 
thing good  can  be  counterfeited  ;  the  strong 
likelihood,  in  a  world  like  this,  that  many  will 
adopt  a  form  of  religion  which  will  turn  out  to 
be  spurious;  and  the  appalling  fact  that  vast 
numbers  expect  to  reach  heaven  who  will  be 
shut  out  at  last, — these  start  the  feeling  in  the 
soul,  I  may  he  lost.  The  reason  why  death  is 
such  a  terror  to  human  beings  is  not  merely 
because  of  the  pain  that  will  arise   from   the 

*  Confessions,  p.  191. 


292  SoBROW. 

separation  of  the  soul  from  the  body,  but  it  is 
the  fear  that  some  dire  evil  will  overwhelm  us 
when  we  reach  eternity.  A  man  must  either 
be  very  good  or  very  bad  who  is  divested  of  all 
fear  with  reference  to  the  everlasting  fate  of 
his  soul.  That  person  is  not  ,wise  who  will 
manifest  the  least  degree  of  lightness  or  super- 
ficiality in  regard  to  the  destiny  of  an  immortal 
spirit. 

There  is  one  very  curious  fact  which  we  ought 
to  look  at,  namely  this,  that  vast  numbers  of  the 
good  are  walking  in  darkness^  though  on  their 
way  to  the  kingdom  of  light.  Why  is  there 
such  an  amount  of  uncertainty  among  the  chil- 
dren of  Infinite  Love  ?  That  there  is  a  super- 
abundance of  grace  in  the  God-man  is  not  to 
be  denied.  We  naturally  think  that  there  is  a 
royal  robe  for  each  saint  upon  earth,  and  a 
sun-like  hope  for  each  forgiven  soul  while  that 
soul  tarries  in  the  flesh.  But  clear  it  is  that 
all  are  not  thus  circumstanced.  A  cloud  rests 
upon  the  brow  of  the  good.  This  seems  to  be 
a  remarkable  feature  in  the  administration  of 
mercy  ;  a  remarkable  feature  in  the  training 
of  souls.  Perhaps  the  God  of  creation  and  the 
cross  permits  uncertainty  to  linger  around  the 
minds  of  the  pious  as  a  means  of  disciphne. 


Shadows  of  the  Otheb  Life.  293 

Uncertainty  is  peculiarly  a  characteristic  of  the 
present  mundane  system.  An  exceedingly  in- 
structive volume  could  be  written  upon  the  un- 
certainties of  nature  and  redemption.  There 
is  such  a  hurried  cry  for  certitude  at  present 
that  whatsoever  is  above  matter  and  man  is 
thrown  into  the  ever-moving  river  of  time, 
there  to  be  buried  and  forgotten.  God  means 
to  try  men  more  than  they  are  willing  to  be 
tried  j  to  teach  them  that  they  know  less  than 
they  seem  to  know  ;  and  to  constrain  them  to 
take  up  and  examine  over  again  what  they 
once  cast  away.  Humility  is  what  is  wanted ; 
faith  also. 

The  very  joy  that  springs  up  in  the  soul  as 
one  thinks  of  the  blessedness  of  heaven  is 
shaded  somewhat  with  sorrow.  If  heaven 
were  the  only  place,  and  holiness  and  happi- 
ness filled  each  human  spirit,  then  no  shadow, 
could  exist.  The  fact  that  we  are  evil  and 
that  evil  is  about  us  and  beyond  us,  must  cloud 
the  brightest  feelings  of  the  soul.  We  may 
visit  the  most  beautiful  cemetery  that  is  to  be 
found  in  the  land  on  the  most  beautiful  day  of 
the  year  ;  may  mark  the  pleasant  walks  with 
seats  here  and  there  ;  may  be  charmed  with 
the  great  variety  of  flowers  and  trees  and  high- 


294  Sorrow. 

ly  finished  tombstones  ;  may  think  that  this  is 
the  place  where  we  should  want  to  rest  when 
life's  day  of  toil  is  ended, — ^yet  all  is  shaded 
with  death.  So  the  very  light  which  gilds  the 
soul  has  beneath  it  a  realm  of  gloom,  and  the 
smile  which  seems  to  be  heaven  itself  is  sure  to 
awaken  the  hidden  sorrow  of  the  heart.  I 
think  we  may  say  with  safety  that  there  is  no 
human  joy  but  that  is  tinged  with  sadness. 
A  skeleton  form  dwells  in  each  habitation. 
The  air  of  human  happiness  is  always  damp. 

"  There  is  no  music  in  this  life 
That  sounds  with  happy  laughter  solely ; 
There's  not  a  string  attun'd  to  mirth 
But  has  its  chord  of  melancholy." 

Unanswered  queries  respecting  the  kind  of 
existence  after  death  may  even  sadden  us.  If 
a  saved  or  lost  man  were  to  come  among  us 
from  eternity,  we  should  question  him  thus  : — 
What  was  it  to  die  ?  Did  it  seem  like  going 
into  a  sleep,  or  were  you  distinctly  conscious  ? 
When  the  soul  had  left  the  body  how  did  you 
feel  ?  If  you  went  to  the  place  of  punishment, 
what  was  your  experience  on  the  journey? 
Did  evil  spirits  conduct  you  to  the  prison  of 
woe  ?     Can  you  give  us  any  definite  conception 


Shadows  of  the  Othek  Life,  295 

of  the  miseries  of  the  lost  ?  Or  if  you  went  to 
heaven,  what  were  your  feehngs  on  the  way  ? 
How.  many  of  the  celestial  inhabitants  accom- 
panied you,  and  how  did  they  appear,  and  what 
did  they  say?  In  what  way  do  spirits  convey 
their  thoughts  to  each  other?  How  did  you 
feel  when  you  entered  the  city  of  God  ?  Who 
met  you  first, — Christ,  angels,  or  your  depart- 
ed friends  ?  Is  it  possible  for  you  to  describe 
the  appearance  of  the  God-man  ?  What  is  the 
nature  of  the  glorified  body  of  Enoch  and  of 
Elijah  ?  As  it  respects  the  blessedness  and  em- 
ployments of  the  saved,  can  you  make  us  to 
understand  the  simple  truth  in  the  case?  What 
peculiar  divine  glory  fills  heaven,  and  what  is 
meant  by  the  vision  of  God?  Many  other 
questions  we  might  ask  ;  but  there  is  no  one  to 
answer  them.  At  the  end  of  all  our  inquiries 
we  have  to  sigh.  Great  leading  thoughts  re- 
lating to  the  future  state  are  all  that  God 
has  favored  us  with.  A  degree  of  dimness 
is  meant  to  cloud  that  wonderful  region  of 
life. 

The  darh  side  of  eternity  affects  us  more  sen- 
sihly  than  the  bright  side  does.  Intensity  of 
suffering  is  greater  than  intensity  of  happiness. 
Take  remorse  of  conscience  and  peace  of  con- 


296  SoEKow. 

science  as  instances.  We  are  certainly  more 
affected  by  remorse  than  we  are  by  peace.  So 
also  painful  sensations  of  the  body  exceed  in 
degree  those  that  are  pleasurable.  Let  a  man 
be  slowly  cut  to  pieces  until  life  departs,  or  be 
burned  to  death,  and  the  intensity  of  the  suffer- 
ing will  far  exceed  the  intensity  of  any  kind  of 
bodily  pleasure.  So  when  sinful  beings  look 
steadily  into  the  future,  they  are  more  alarmed 
by  the  fact  of  eternal  misery,  than  they  are 
cheered  by  the  fact  of  eternal  blessedness.  It 
requires  an  effort  for  man  to  hope  for  the  best  j 
but  fear  lays  hold  of  the  soul  whether  one  wants 
it  or  not. 

That  the  wicked  when  they  enter  eternity 
will  see  themselves  to  be  wholly  evil  is  a  start- 
ling thought.  A  man  living  and  dying  full  of 
conceit :  the  moment  after  death  gazing  upon  a 
depravity  that  has  no  line  of  goodness  running 
through  it !  There  is  something  frightful  in  the 
conception  that  the  unnumbered  hosts  of  the 
lost  shall  be  compelled  to  look  around  their 
character  hour  after  hour,  conscience  uttering 
only  one  ceaseless  condemnation.  To  be  stripped 
of  all  that  was  once  thought  fair ;  to  be  cut  off 
from  all  the  influences  which  once  threw  a  ra- 
diance around  our  souls ;  to  be  left  alone  with 


Shadows  of  the  Other  Life.  297 

ourselves  in  the  '*  outer  darkness  "  of  eternity, — 
to  be  thus  situated  is  death. 

Possibly  we  have  fears  also  that  a  departed 
friend  of  ours  is  lost.  The  shadows  of  the  other 
hfe  thicken  around  us.  We  thread  our  way  to 
the  future  in  the  midst  of  sadness.  What  is 
the  real  meaning  of  those  words  of  David  ? — 
"0  my  son  Absalom,  my  son,  my  son  Absa- 
lom !  would  God  I  had  died  for  thee,  0  Absa- 
lom, my  son,  my  son."  Was  the  father  simply 
troubled  that  his  son  was  dead?  Something 
deeper  than  that  seems  to  us  to  have  agitated 
his  spirit.  Was  he  not  overwhelmed  with  grief 
because  his  son  was  struck  down  in  the  midst 
of  his  wickedness,  and  that  he  had  been  thrust 
into  eternity  without  any  preparation?  His 
wishing  that  he  might  have  died  for  Absalom, 
seems  to  convey  the  idea  that  he  might  have 
left  the  world  in  safety,  for  he  was  a  rehgious 
man,  while  his  son  was  not.  To  see  one  enter- 
ing that  great  futurity  with  confirmed  habits  of 
evil  is  extremely  saddening.  Especially  is  it 
saddening  when  one  we  love  dies  without  peni- 
tence or  hope ;  dies  locked  up  in  sin.  To  bhnk 
the  matter  is  not  wise.  To  offer  any  sophisti- 
cated reasons  is  utter  trifling.  An  immortal 
creature  has  gone  to  meet  God  in  a  state  of 


298  SoEROw. 

moral  obduracy,   and  how  can  we  deny  the 
fact?     We  see  it  and  tremble. 

If  I  have  a  loved  friend  in  eternity  that  I 
once  injured^  the  thought  of  that  act  of  evil  will 
cut  me  to  the  heart.  Simply  a  cross  word  ad- 
dressed to  a  mother,  wife,  or  child,  will  torment 
the  soul  for  years  after  the  loved  object  is  gone. 
It  will  be  next  to  impossible  for  us  to  forgive 
ourselves.  God  may  have  forgiven  us ;  yet  the 
act  will  ever  and  anon  come  up  before  the  mind, 
causing  intense  pain.  And  the  bitterness  is  in- 
creased that  we  did  not  confess  our  sin  before 
our  friend  left  us.  There  will  be  an  utter 
loathing  of  ourselves  because  of  our  backward- 
ness in  this  particular.  How  glad  we  should  be 
if  the  one  we  injured  would  come  back  from 
eternity  that  we  might  confess  to  him  our  fault, 
and  ask  forgiveness.  But  this  is  impossible; 
and  so  we  must  suffer,  feeling  that  we  are  the 
most  wicked  of  men.  Even  a  very  small  of- 
fence, or  slight  mistake,  will  trouble  the  mind 
exceedingly.  **I  knew  of  a  case,"  says  De 
Quincey,  **  where  a  mere  semblance  and  shadow 
of  cruelty,  under  similar  circumstances,  inflicted 
the  grief  of  self-reproach  through  the  remain- 
der of  life.  A  boy,  interesting  in  his  appear- 
ance, as  also  from  his  remarkable  docility,  was 


Shadows  of  the  Other  Lite.  299 

attacked,  on  a  cold  day  of  spring,  by  a  com- 
plaint of  the  trachea — not  precisely  croup,  but 
like  it.  He  was  three  years  old,  and  had  been 
ill  perhaps  for  four  days  ;  but  at  intervals  had 
been  in  high  spirits,  and  capable  of  playing. 
This  sunshine,  gleaming  through  dark  clouds, 
had  continued  even  on  the  fourth  day;  and 
from  nine  to  eleven  o'clock  at  night  he  had 
showed  more  animated  pleasure  than  ever. 
An  old  servant,  hearing  of  his  illness,  had 
called  to  see  him  ;  and  her  mode  of  talking 
with  him  had  excited  all  the  joyousness  of  his 
nature.  About  midnight,  his  mother,  fancying 
that  his  feet  felt  cold,  was  muffling  them  up  in 
flannels ;  and,  as  he  seemed  to  resist  her  a  little, 
she  struck  lightly  on  the  sole  of  one  foot  as  a 
mode  of  admonishing  him  to  be  quiet.  He 
did  not  repeat  his  motion  ;  and  in  less  than 
a  minute  his  mother  had  him  in  her  arms  with 
his  face  looking  upwards.  'What  is  the  mean- 
ing,^ she  exclaimed  in  sudden  affright,  *  of  this 
strange  repose  setthng  upon  his  features  V  She 
called  loudly  to  a  servant  in  another  room ;  but 
before  the  servant  could  reach  her,  the  child 
had  drawn  two  inspirations,  deep,  yet  gentle — 
and  had  died  in  his  mother's  arms !  Upon 
this,  the  poor  afflict-ed  lady  made  the  discovery 


300  Sorrow. 

that  those  struggles,  which  she  had  supposed 
to  be  expressions  of  resistance  to  herself,  were 
the  struggles  of  departing  life.  It  followed,  or 
seemed  to  follow,  that  with  these  final  strug- 
gles had  blended  an  expression,  on  her  part,  of 
displeasure.  Doubtless  the  child  had  not  dis- 
tinctly perceived  it ;  but  the  mother  could  never 
look  back  to  that  incident  without  self-reproach. 
And  seven  years  after,  when  her  own  death 
happened,  no  progress  had  been  made  in  re- 
conciling her  thoughts  to  that  which  only  the 
depth  of  love  could  have  viewed  as  an  of- 
fence." * 

There  is  a  great^  struggle  at  present,  among 
certain  classes,  to  do  away  with  all  kind  of 
anxiety  touching  the  future  state.  Fear  is 
looked  upon  as  evidence  of  a  superstitious 
mind ;  it  is  the  enemy  of  all  happiness  ;  it 
must,  therefore  be  destroyed.  Indiffererice  is 
looked  upon  as  the  great  passive  virtue.  In- 
difference in  the  new  vocabulary  is  called  peace. 
Thus  with  fear  gone  and  indifference  anointed 
and  enthroned,  men  stand  and  cast  their  eyes 
around  with  composure,  pitying  those  who  are 
stiU  in  bondage.     But  all  this  is  merely  the  at- 


*  Confessions  of  an  Opiunj-Eater,  p.  165. 


Shadows  of  the  Oiher   Life.  301 

tempt  to  substitute  sin  for  salvation.     Fallen 
souls   finding   no   way   to   escape   from    their 
troubles,  have   struck   upon    the    thought    of 
voting  them  out  of  existence,  supposing  that 
then  all  will  be  well.     The  rationalistic  move- 
ment just  now,  the  sceptical  movement,  is  turn- 
ing much  of  evil  into  good,  and  much  of  good 
into  evil.     In  this  is  found  the  progress  of  the 
race.    We  are  told  with  great   certainty   that 
the  ideas  of  eternal  sin  and  eternal  punishment 
are  false.     If  assertion  were  proof,  the  point 
would  be  gained.     Touching  the   problem   of 
endless  evil,  the  human  understanding  can  give 
us  nothing  more  than  a  mere  guess.     As  rea- 
sonable men  we  cannot  accept  that  guess   as 
sufficient.     It  is  far  better  to  say  that  the  sub- 
ject is  beyond  the  hne   of  our   reason.     We 
make  our  appeal  to  Scripture.     There  we  stand. 
The  Bible  view  of  the  state  of  the  wicked  in 
the  future  is  that  it  infixed  and  final.     Eter- 
nity shuts  down  upon  it.     There  is   not  the 
least  intimation  given  of  any  release  from  pun- 
ishment ;   no  hint  of  any  repentance  or  faith  ; 
no  mention  of  any   redemption.     The   people 
are  lost,  and  they  are  lost  forever.     That  a  fact 
of  this  kind  is  dark  and  mysterious  we  will  not 
deny.     Sin  in   any   shape  is  a  mystery.     No 


302  Sorrow. 

one  has  been  able  yet  to  harmonize  it  with  the 
divine  benevolence.  We  take  sides,  however, 
with  God.  He  will  do  right.  Certainly  if  the 
Bible  made  it  clear  that  after  an  exceedingly 
long  period  sin  would  end  and  punishment  also, 
we  should  believe  the  truth.  We  find  nothing, 
however,  of  the  kind  in  the  great  drift  of 
Scripture  teaching.  He  that  is  unjust  will  be 
unjust  still,  and  he  that  is  filthy  will  be  filthy 
still.  Permanent  evil  character  is  the  one 
fearful  fact. 

It  may  be  that  sin  in  lost  souls  will  dwarf 
them.  The  nature  being  essentially  dead  as  it 
respects  goodness,  the  soul  sinks.  Men  in  this 
fife  will  do  great  things  under  the  power  of 
sin  ;  but  in  eternity  this  power  may  run  out. 
When  an  immortal  spirit  has  lost  sight  of  holi- 
ness and  God,  and  simply  moves  round  in  its 
own  dark  orbit,  it  would  seem  as  if  it  must  be 
ultimately  enfeebled  in  all  its  faculties ;  ap- 
proaching more  and  more  to  an  existence  that 
is  marked  with  stupidity  ;  sin  resulting  in  a 
death  intellectual  as  well  as  moral.  Despair 
itself  may  crush  out  the  animating  power  of 
the  soul.  This,  of  course,  is  simply  a  specula- 
tion. If  it  has  any  truth  in  it,  the  fact  of  sor- 
row will  be  somewhat  peculiar  in  the  future 


Shadows  of  the  Other  Life.  303 

state.  We  do  not  venture,  however,  to  draw 
any  inferences.  The  point  is  not  sufficiently 
clear. 

It  may  be  well  to  state  here,  that  the  alarms 
of  men  with  reference  to  the  future  are  not 
wholly  the  result  of  Bible  teaching.  "  We 
have  every  reason  for  beheving  that  much  the 
same  views  of  death,  and  the  same  apprehen- 
sion of  future  retribution  as  now  prevail,  have 
ever  existed  among  mankind.  In  all  ages,  too, 
and  in  all  creeds,  the  representations  of  the 
nature  of  this  future  punishment  have  been  of 
the  most  terrific  kind,  as  though  the  imagina- 
tion, for  this  purpose,  had  been  taxed  to  its  ut- 
most powers.  Fire,  and  chains,  and  utter 
darkness,  and  similitudes  of  ever-ungratified 
desire  and  of  ever-raging  passion,  have  always 
formed  a  part  of  the  dread  machinery  of  Hades. 
Leaving  out  of  the  account  the  solemn  confir- 
mation of  the  doctrine  which  may  be  derived 
from  the  fearful  imagery  employed  by  our 
Saviour,  and  taking  into  view  only  the  heathen 
world,  we  may  well  ask  the  question,  Whence 
came  all  this  ?  The  great  problem  is  for  them 
to  solve  who  assert  that  the  doctrine  of  future 
punishment  is  contrary  to  the  Scriptures,  the 
reason,  and  the  feehngs.     Whence,  then,  came 


304:  SoERow. 

it,  in  the  face  of  all  these  opposing  influences  ? 
Men  are  not  fond  of  what  is  irrational  for  its 
own  sake,  and  they  certainly  do  not  love  their 
own  misery."* 

*  Taylor  Lewis,  Dissertation  on  some  Points  of  the  Platonic 
Philosophy,  p.  320. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

THOUGHTS  ADDRESSED  TO  SORROWING  PARENTS 
RESPECTING  THEIR  INFANT  CHILDREN  WHO 
HA  VE  PASSED  INTO  ETERNITY. 

**  One  time  my  soul  was  pierced  as  with  a  sword. 
Contending  still  with  men  untaught  and  wild. 
When  he  to  the  prophet  bent  his  gourd, 
Ctave  me  the  solace  of  a  pleasant  child. 

A  summer  gift  my  precious  flower  was  given  ; 

A  very  summer  fragrance  was  its  Ufe  ; 
Its  clear  eyes  soothed  me  as  the  blue  of  heaven 

When  home  I  turned,  a  weary  man  of  strife. 

A  few  short  months  it  blossomed  near  my  heart ; 

A  few  short  mouths — else  toilsome  all  and  sad  ; 
But  that  home  solace  nerved  me  for  my  part. 

And  of  the  babe  I  was  exceeding  glad  1 

Alas  1  my  pretty  bud,  scarce  formed,  was  dying — 
{ The  prophet's  gourd,  it  withered  in  a  night !) 

And  he  who  gave  me  all,  my  heart's  pulse  trying. 
Took  gently  home  the  child  of  my  delight. 

My  blessed  Master  saved  me  from  repining. 

So  tenderly  he  sued  me  for  his  own  ; 
So  beautiful  He  made  my  babe's  declining, 

Its  dying  blessed  me  as  its  birth  had  done." 

Mes.  Monteath. 

IF  parents  had  their  own  choice,  not  a  single 
hifant  would  die.     The  desire  is  that  each 
child  should  live  and   grow   up   to   matmity. 


306  Sorrow. 

There  is  an  apparent  severity  about  God  in 
that  he  blasts  the  hopes  of  so  many  house- 
holds. The  Creator  seems  to  have  no  fellow- 
feeling  with  his  creatures.  He  can  look  upon 
the  bereavement  and  anguish  which  he  has 
caused  without  abating  in  the  least  the  terrible 
work  of  death.  If  our  feelings  were  to  be  the 
rule  for  the  Dinne  Being,  there  would  be  no 
death.  Grod,  however,  is  governed  by  that 
which  is  right,  by  that  which  is  best. 

The  sorrow  that  connects  itself  with  the 
death  of  a  little  child  is  peculiar.  The  fact 
that  the  child  was  our  own  ;  that  a  new  class  of 
feelings  thrilled  the  soul  when  it  came  ;  that  it 
was  the  centre  of  interest  to  all  in  the  house  ; 
that  it  was  so  helpless  and  dependent,  appeal- 
ing instinctively  to  us  to  care  for  it ;  that  it 
was  struck  with  disease,  and  suffered  ;  that  it 
stayed  with  us  for  an  hour,  and  then  died, — all 
this  saddens  the  heart.  As  the  thief  prayed 
and  then  went  to  paradise,  so  the  little  one 
smiled  and  then  went  home.  Its  very  clothes 
and  coffin  ;  the  grave  where  it  sleeps  ;  its  look 
which  has  been  printed  upon  the  soul ;  its 
short  history  that  is  remembered  so  well, — 
these  bring  tears  to  the  eye.  The  child  seemed 
like  a  new  star  shining  upon  our  night ;  like 


Infants  in  Heaven.  307 

a  visitor  from  God's  land  ;  like  a  messenger 
sent  to  call  us  home.  Our  heart  carries  with- 
in it  a  sigh.  Wherever  we  go  there  is  a  sense 
of  loss.  In  our  waking  thoughts  its  presence 
is  before  us,  and  in  our  sleep  we  hear  it  cry. 
Our  whole  being  has  received  an  influence 
from  that  frail  creature,  and  nothing  is  the 
same  as  it  was  before.  I  have  seen  a  mother 
weep  more  bitterly  over  the  death  of  her  child 
than  over  any  friend  she  had  ever  lost,  and 
I  have  seen  a  father  of  rough  exterior  crying 
as  one  who  refused  to  be  comforted. 

Considering  the  vast  number  of  infants  that 
die,  it  is  most  wonderful  that  the  Bible  is 
almost  silent  respecting  their  fate  hereafter! 
The  passage  where  David  says  of  his  child,  ''I 
shall  go  to  him,  but  he  shall  not  return  to  me,'' 
has  been  understood  as  conveying  the  idea 
that  the  soul  of  the  child  was  in  heaven,  and 
that  there  the  father  would  meet  it  at  the  end 
of  his  own  life.  This  may  be  the  true  mean- 
ing. Understood  thus,  it  would  show  the  be- 
lief of  a  pious  Jew  in  regard  to  the  salvation  of 
his  child.  Of  course  such  a  belief  has  no  spe- 
cial authority  connected  with  it,  any  more  than 
our  own  belief  relating  to  the  same  subject. 
The  great  passage  that  we  must  fall  back  upon 


308  SoERow. 

is  this — ''  SuiTer  the  Uttle  children  to  come  un- 
to me,  and  forbid  them  not :  for  of  such  is  the 
kingdom  of  Grod."  It  is  certainly  quite  re- 
markable that  this  is  the  only  definite  state- 
ment which  is  to  be  found  within  the  pages  of 
divine  revelation  touching  the  salvation  of  in- 
fants !  We  should  have  supposed  that  God's 
word  would  have  contained  many  utterances 
relating  to  the  future  condition  of  little  child- 
ren. Even  the  verse  just  quoted  is  not  thought 
by  some  commentators  to  have  any  reference 
to  the  salvation  of  infants.  They  understand 
it  simply  to  teach  that  we  must  be  childlike  be- 
fore we  can  be  subjects  of  the  divine  kingdom. 
If  such  be  the  meaning  of  Christ's  language, 
then  there  is  not  a  single  authoritative  passage 
m  the  Bible  that  makes  known  to  us  the  fate 
of  the  infant  race  in  eternity.  The  very  idea 
is  oppressive ;  a  chill  creeps  over  us.  We  in- 
cline to  think  that  the  verse  does  intimate  that 
infants  are  saved.  This  is  the  first  impression  j 
this  is  the  general  impression.  It  will  be  next 
to  impossible  to  get  the  common  mind  to  un- 
derstand the  passage  in  any  other  way. 

Possibly  the  Bible  says  so  little  upon  tliis 
subject  just  because  all  is  well  with  the  infant 
dead.     God  having  taken  the  matter  of  their 


Infants  in  Heayen.  309 

salvation  entirely  in  his  own  hands,  he  finds  it 
not  necessary  to  unfold  his  plans.  The  very 
silence  of  Scripture  is  Grodlike  ;  and  the  silence 
in  this  case  is  really  an  argument  that  infants 
are  saved.  Into  this  world  they  came  with  no 
wiU  of  their  own,  and  into  the  world  of  light 
they  may  enter  without  any  choice  on  their 
part.  They  were  struck  with  the  blight  of  sin 
with  no  personal  agency  in  the  matter,  and  so 
they  may  be  made  holy  without  any  voluntary 
movement  of  their  own.  '  Besides,  if  Grod  by 
his  sovereign  grace  does  regenerate,  sanctify, 
and  save  millions  of  men,  we  have  the  strong- 
est reason  for  believing  that  he  will  regenerate 
and  save  the  millions  of  infant  creatures  who 
die  ;  and  this  all  the  more,  inasmuch  as  the 
depravity  which  clings  to  their  nature  is  far 
different  from  the  depravity  of  those  who  have 
voluntarily  trampled  upon  law  and  mercy.  If 
God  does  the  greater  work,  we  cannot  help 
thinking  that  he  will  do  the  less.  Our  con- 
clusion then  is,  that  all  the  infants  who  have 
died  in  past  time  have  gone  to  heaven,  and 
all  who  will  die  in  the  future  will  also  reach 
that  glorious  land.  We  have  gone  upon  the 
supposition  that  no  child  is  admitted  into  the 
eternal  presence  of  God   without  a  complete 


310  Sorrow. 

change  of  nature ;  the  change  bemg  effected 
by  the  Divine  Spirit.  Every  human  being  is 
damaged  from  the  start.  There  is  a  tendency 
in  all  to  evil,  but  there  is  no  tendency  to  good. 
If  an  infant  were  to  go  to  heaven  without  any 
change  of  heart,  it  would  just  as  certainly  sin 
in  heaven,  as  it  would  certainly  sin  if  it  re- 
mained here  upon  the  earth.  The  circum- 
stances of  heaven  may  be  perfect,  but  perfect 
circumstances  will  not  keep  a  human  being 
from  sinning.  There  is  evil  in  the  soul,  and 
not  till  that  evil  is  destroyed  is  there  any 
escape  from  sin-.  If  sin  were  an  outward  affair, 
just  like  a  bad  odor  that  had  touched  the  hand 
or  a  black  mark  that  had  been  made  upon  the 
face,  it  could  as  easily  be  washed  off  as  we 
could  wash  off  the  bad  odor  or  the  black  mark. 
The  thought  that  all  infants  are  saved  is  one 
of  great  comfort  to  those  who  have  lost  them. 
The  joy  which  arises  in  view  of  their  endless 
life  should  far  outweigh  the  sorrow  that  has 
been  created  by  their  death.  Just  what  may 
be  the  exact  state  of  these  young  immortals  in 
heaven,  of  course  we  cannot  tell.  The  Bible 
saying  not  a  word  upon  the  subject,  we  are  left 
to  do  the  best  we  can  in  the  line  of  conjecture. 
To  think  of  those  who  have  left  us  so  soon, 


Infants  in  Heaven.  311 

and  to  imagine  the  scenes  that  may  smTOund 
them  in  that  other  land,  is  natural.  The  follow- 
ing thoughts,  which  seem  to  us  to  be  in  harmony 
with  reason  and  revelation,  are  presented. 

It  is  likely  that  infants  when  they  reach 
heaven  will  be  placed  under  the  care  of 
mature  minds.  The  soul  of  an  infant  is  but 
slightly  developed.  That  soul  will  not  be  left 
like  a  gem  which  has  been  washed  upon  the 
shore  of  heaven,  to  lie  there  and  sparkle  in  the 
light  of  eternity,  but  the  gem  will  be  taken  up 
by  careful  hands  and  set  in  the  diadem  of 
Jesus,  that  it  may  honor  him  forever  and  ever. 
Indeed,  I  cannot  help  believing  that  an  unu- 
sual interest  will  cluster  about  the  advent  of  an 
infant's  spirit  into  heaven.  One  almost  imag- 
ines that  there  will  be  a  rivalry  among  the 
powers  and  princes  of  the  celestial  kingdom  as 
to  who  shall  first  wait  upon  the  little  inhabitant 
who  has  made  its  appearance  among  them. 
According  to  its  immaturity  it  will  be  sur- 
rounded with  all  the  care  that  is  needed ;  and 
it  will  be  led  out  and  upward  step  by  step 
under  the  attentive  direction  of  superior  minds. 
I  see  nothing  contrary  to  the  nature  of  heaven 
in  an  idea  of  this  kind.  Perhaps,  if  we  knew 
the  whole  truth,  it  might  be  found  that  many 


312  Soehow. 

adult  souls  which  have  reached  heaven  are 
placed  as  scholars  under  teachers  of  exalted 
attainments.  How  very  fit  it  would  seem  that 
some  lofty  angel  who  had  lived  ever  since  the 
beginning  of  time,  or  some  practised  saint  who 
had  been  a  resident  of  heaven  fof  thousands  of 
years,  should  be  the  teacher  of  men  who  had 
but  few  advantages  in  the  present  life.  If  such 
thoughts  be  reasonable,  then  we  may  well  be- 
lieve that  infant  minds  will  be  put  under  the 
care  of  a  Moses  or  a  Gabriel,  and  that  light 
will  be  poured  into  the  soul  which  has  just 
opened  itself  amid  the  splendors  of  eternity. 
Is  it  not  a  law  of  all  finite  intelligences  that 
mind  has  to  depend  upon  mind  for  its  develop- 
ment, especially  at'  the  beginning  of  its  career  ? 
If  there  is  no  creature  to  aid,  then  God  must, 
— one  or  the  other.  This  appearing  to  be  a 
necessary  condition  in  the  primary  develop- 
ment of  souls,  I  am  led  thereby  to  believe  that 
infant  spirits  are  nurtured  by  higher  spirits 
when  they  have  entered  among  the  sons  and 
citizens  of  glory. 

Is  it  not  reasonable  to  suppose  also  that 
there  will  be  a  great  quickening  of  the  whoU 
mental  nature  the  moment  the  infant  reaches 
heaven?     This  quickening   I   would   view   as 


Infants  in  Heaven.  313 

sometliing  difFereiit  from  that  which  results 
from  heavenly  instruction.  The  fact  to  be 
noted  is,  that  the  soul  is  holy.  A  holy  nature 
must  work  freer  and  faster  and  better  in  every 
way  than  one  that  is  sinful.  A  divine  life 
animates  the  whole  of  the  mental  faculties. 
Then,  too,  the  collective  circumstances  of 
heaven  fit  the  soul.  The  ransomed  spirit  seems 
to  have  baen  set  down  in  a  place  where  the 
conditions  of  development  are  just  as  they 
should  be.  A  kind  of  maturity  is  therefore 
reached  by  a  short  march.  The  seed  that  is 
planted  to-day  bears  fruit  to-morrow.  No 
frosts  nip  the  bud  that  has  begun  to  show 
itself.  The  opening  flower  does  not  bow  its 
head  and  die  because  of  the  heat  of  a  burning 
sun.  The  soul  simply  lives,  grows,  becomes 
great.  As  if  heretofore  it  had  been  held  down 
and  held  back  and  could  make  no  progress  ; 
very  much  as  a  plant  trying  to  grow  beneath  a 
stone,  or  a  sick  man  trying  to  get  well  while 
breathing  poisoned  air.  That  is  a  grand  his- 
toric moment  when  a  child  opens  its  eyes  in 
heaven  and  finds  all  as  it  should  be.  The 
wheels  of  the  soul  run  at  once  with  regularity 
like  a  watch  made  in  glory,  like  a  planet  that 


314  Sorrow. 

never. wanders  from  its  sun,  like  a  seraph  that 
never  strays  from  his  Grod. 

"  Depart  my  child !  enjoy  in  heaven's  pure  day 

What  earth  must  still  deny  ; 
Here  many  a  storm  awaits  thy  longer  way, 

And  many  a  tear  thine  eye. 
Go,  where  the  flowers  have  never  faded. 
Where  love  may  smile  unchilled,  unshaded. 
Depart,  my  child ! 

Depart,  my  child  I  soon  shall  we  meet  again 

In  the  good  land  of  rest : 
Thou  goest,  happy  one !  ere  grief  or  pain 

Have  reached  thy  gentle  breast. 
Happy,  our  thorny  path  forsaking, 
From  hfe's  vain  dream  so  early  waking. 

Depart,  my  child." 

Some  one  has  "said  that  when  a  child  has 
died  we  always  think  of  it  afterwards  as  a 
child.  The  thought  is  true  to  nature.  Our 
other  children  that  live,  reach  the  years  of  ma- 
turity, and  we  think  of  them  as  men ;  but  the 
infant  that  went  away  to  heaven,  whatever  its 
advantages  and  growth,  is  still  thought  of  as 
an  infant.  The  image  of  the  being  that  stayed 
with  us  during  the  time  of  sunrise  is  the  image 
that  was  stamped  upon  the  soul,  and  we  know 
of  no  other.  The  photograph  of  the  departed 
which  we  keep  in  our  Album,  which  we  look 


Infants  in  Heaven.  315 

at  when  we  feel  sad  and  show  to  those  who 
come  to  visit  us,  no  doubt  helps  to  keep  the 
image  fresh  in  the  mind.  Is  it  wise,  however, 
to  think  merely  of  our  child  as  an  infant  ?  In 
mind  it  is  an  infant  no  longer.  It  is  a  highly 
developed  human  spirit.  Quite  likely  it  has  a 
range  of  being  far  greater  than  our  own.  In 
fact  we  are  the  children,  and  that  child  is  the 
adult.  It  is  a  question  more  than  curious  also 
whether  the  infant  body  that  was  laid  in  the 
grave,  will  be  raised  as  an  infant  body  at  the 
last  day.  It  would  be  my  opinion  that  it 
would  not.  Inasmuch  as  the  soul  in  heaven 
will  have  reached  a  very  high  state  of  develop- 
ment before  the  morning  of  the  resurrection, 
it  seems  not  to  be  at  all  suitable  that  such  a 
soul  should  take  possession  of  an  infant  body. 
As  I  do  not  understand  that  a  man  who  weighs 
four  hundred  pounds  when  he  dies  wiU.  be 
raised  at  the  last  day  with  a  body  of  the  ^ame 
weight,  so  neither  do  I  understand  that  an 
infant's  body  will  be  raised  as  such  at  the  last 
day. 

Another  question  suggests  itself  to  us, 
namely  this,  will  an  infant  in  heaven  he  taught 
anything  about  this  earth  ?  I  should  suppose 
that  it  would.     This  is  a  dark  world,  and  all 


316  Sorrow. 

the  darker  by  reason  of  its  contrast  with 
heaven,  yet  I  think  it  would  be  well  for  the 
savfed  child  to  know  something  about  it.  To 
know  that  it  belonged  to  a  fallen  race,  and 
that  the  Son  of  God  had  to  suffer  for  man  in 
order  to  redeem  him,  would  be  deeply  impor- 
tant. The  thought  then  would  dawn  upon  the 
mind  of  the  child  that  it  had  been  saved.  To 
be  ignorant  of  this  would  be  an  injury  to  the 
soul  ;  for  in  that  case  it  could  not  be  thank- 
ful,— could  not  praise  God  for  his  salvation. 
But  knowing  this  great  central  fact,  it  could 
join  intelligently  and  heartily  in  the  song  of 
redemption  with  the  millions  of  the  purified. 
It  could  know  also  that  numbers  of  the  human 
race  became  exceedingly  wicked  and  were 
finally  lost,  and  that  numbers  died  in  infancy 
and  were  saved.  This  would  make  the  young 
mind  to  see  what  a  blessing  it  was  to  die  at 
the  beginning  of  life.  If  it  had  grown  up  like 
others  in  a  world  of  evil,  like  others  it  might 
have  been  lost  forever.  In  fact  the  leading 
things  relating  to  this  earth  could  easily  be  re- 
vealed to  the  child  as  it  was  able  to  bear 
them,^ — giving  it  in  course  of  time  a  synopsis 
of  human  history. 

Will  heaven  appear  to  the  saved  infant  as  Us 


Infants  in  Heaven.  317 

native  land  ?  In  the  case  of  some  little  children 
who  have  died,  there  may  be  a  slight  remem- 
brance of  having  lived  upon  the  earth ;  even  as 
a  child  born  in  one  country  and  moving  away 
to  another  when  it  is  quite  young  may  remem- 
ber a  few  things, — a  house,  perhaps  the  one  it 
lived  in,  a  yard  or  street,  a  fence  around  the 
garden  or  a  certain  tree  that  grew  there,  a 
bird  that  used  to  sing  in  a  cage,  a  particular 
boy  or  girl  that  lived  near  by,  a  man  or 
woman  who  had  bestowed  some  favor,  the  phy- 
sician who  had  to  lance  a  certain  part  of  the 
body.  I  have  noticed  this,  however,  that  while 
young  children  remember  at  first  several  things 
connected  with  the  place  where  they  formerly 
lived,  it  is  not  long  before  they  have  forgotten 
all.  The  picture  that  was  engraved  upon  the 
mind  was  so  delicate  that  the  rush  of  thoughts 
across  it  wore  it  all  away.  Whether  anything 
like  this  will  take  place  with  the  child  who  ha's 
gone  to  heaven  is  a  question.  I  should  rather 
suppose  that  what  was  remembered  at  first 
would  be  remembered  afterwards;  that  the 
heavenly  child  would  not  forget  like  the  earth- 
ly one.  My  reason  for  entertaining  this  opin- 
ion is  found  in  one  of  the  thoughts  already 
stated.     We   have  mentioned  as  probable  that 


318  Sorrow. 

there  will  be  a  quickening  of  the  whole  mental 
nature  when  the  infant  spirit  reaches  heaven. 
If  this  be  so,  then  the  memory  will  be  strength- 
ened J  that  which  entered  the  mind  at  first  will 
be  revived  afterwards  with  great  distinctness. 
Visions  of  the  past  will  not  fade  away  like  the 
image  from  a  coin  ;  impressions  will  not  be 
effaced  like  footprints  in  the  sand  by  the  force 
of  waves.  It  is  certainly  a  pleasing  thought 
that  the  little  pilgrim  who  tarried  with  us  for 
a  night  bore  away  with  it  to  the  skies  some 
memorials  of  the  earth  ;  as  if  some  of  the  gol- 
den grains  of  time  clung  to  its  feet  when  it  de- 
parted, which,  without  even  thinking,  it  carried 
upward  to  its  home  among  the  stars.  Perhaps 
in  this  way  many  an  infant  in  heaven  will 
think  of  the  mother  who  watched  and  wept 
over  it ;  of  the  father  whose  voice  was  distin- 
guished from  that  of  others  ;  of  the  sister  who 
carried  it  about  the  room,  or  played  with  it  dur- 
ing the  passage  of  some  quiet  hour.  The  an- 
gels when  they  come  to  see  us  have  always 
about  them  some  of  the  fragrance  of  heaven 
as  if  they  held  in  their  harid  one  of  the  flowers 
of  paradise,  so  when  the  infant  departs  to 
glory  it  may  have  about  its  person  some  of  the 
eweet  perfumes  of  earthly  love.     It  is  possible 


Infants  m  Heaven.  319 

that  this  may  be  so  ;  it  would  be  pleasant  if  it 
should  be  so.  There  would  in  this  way  be 
vestiges  of  a  former  home  ;  reminiscences  of 
a  land  and  a  life  that  are  far  away. 

It  may  be  that  when  an  infant  dies  quite 
young  no  relic  of  the  earth  and  time  goes  with 
it.  To  all  intents  and  purposes  heaven  may 
appear  as  its  native  land.  As  the  infant  that 
has  been  laid  down  at  some  one's  door  on  a 
dark  night  is  taken  up  and  placed  in  a  family 
where  it  lives  and  grows,  knowing  no  other 
father  and  mother  but  those  who  care  for  it, 
and  no  other  home  but  the  one  in  which  it 
finds  itself,  so  the  young  creature  that  lives  in 
heaven,  having  no  recollection  of  any  other 
country,  may  think  of  that  as  its  home.  It  is 
a  blessed  thing  to  begin  life  essentially  in  hea- 
ven. What  a  pure  and  peaceful  land  that  is ! 
far  removed  from  all  human  care  and  woe. 
This  world  is  a  weary  place.  The  people  that 
live  here  are  not  well.  One  almost  wishes  that 
he  had  died  young,  and  that  in  heaven  amidst 
all  perfection  he  had  found  the  blessed  land. 
It  fills  the  soul  with  a  quiet  joy  to  think  of 
myriads  of  infant  beings  inhabiting  the  city  of 
God,  as  if  that  was  the  place  where  first  they 
saw  the  light ;  and  dwelling  in  a  palace  home 


320  SoEKOw. 

with  the  principahties  and  powers  of  eternity, 
as  if  no  other  home  had  ever  sheltered  them, 
and  no  other  companions  but  sinless  creatures 
had  ever  been  theirs.  It  is  more  blessed  than 
we  can  tell  to  begin  life  amidst  the  purity  and 
glory  of  heaven;  where  never  has  come  any 
evil  thing  ;  where  each  one  has  his  golden  ves- 
sel filled  with  love ;  and  where  the  songs  and 
services  of  the  temple  worship  of  God  sweep 
the  eternal  hours,  like  winged  messengers  of 
light  uttering  joy.  From  many  a  lonely 
dwelling  of  earth  there  have  gone  up  to  hea- 
ven infant  spirits  made  clean :  in  poverty  here, 
in  riches  there  ;  to-day  clad  with  rags,  to-mor- 
row with  the  garments  of  royalty  befitting  the 
children  of  a  King.  From  tent  and  town, 
from  city  and  sea,  thousands  of  youthful  im- 
mortals have  winged  their  flight  to  the  man- 
sions of  the  good  ;  tarrying  here  but  for  a  mo- 
ment in  their  crumbling  habitations,  even  as 
birds  of  passage  do  sometimes  light  upon  a 
foundered  ship  to  rest,  after  which  they  fly 
away  to  a  sunny  land. 

Those  who  have  lost  infant  children  may  be 
quiet  and  peaceful.  Pleasant  it  would  have 
been  to  have  had  them  remain  here ;  but  God 
is  wise  and  good  in  what  he  does.     To  prepare 


Infants  in  Heaven.  321 

to  meet  those  who  have  gone  before  us  is  the 
chief  thing.  A  child  saved  and  a  parent 
lost — what  a  thought  to  (ill  the  mind !  The 
'hands  of  the  departed  seem  to  be  outstretched 
as  if  they  were  pleading.  They  beckon  to 
those  that  linger  here  to  come.  They  point 
with  the  finger  to  the  open  gates  of  life.  A 
voice  seems  to  reach  us,  saying,  Wipe  thine 
eyes ;  see  the  crown  j  come  away. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

TEE  MINISTR  T  OF  SORR 0  W. 

WE  shall  first  notice  the  problem  of  sor- 
row.  Whatever  of  mystery  there  may 
seem  to  be  connected  with  sorrow  in  the  sys- 
tem of  an  All-wise  Being,  it  can  be  resolved 
into  the  greater  mystery  of  sin.  Let  sin  cease, 
and  the  difficulties  connected  with  sorrow  will 
also  cease.  That  sadness  should  bear  heavy 
upon  a  soul  because  sin  has  been  committed 
is  certainly  a  state  of  things  which  the  sound- 
est reason  approves.  The  question  is  not. 
why  should  sorrow  exist  ?  but  rather  this,  why 
should  sin  exist  ?  I  am  not  aware  that  men  find 
any  difficulty  in  reconciling  the  fact  of  guilt 
with  the  power  and  benevolence  of  God.  It 
would  be  a  most  mysterious  thing  to  have  sin 
and  not  to  have  guilt.  Would  it  not  be  equal- 
ly mysterious  to  have  sin  and  not  to  have  sor- 
row ?     The  problem  of  moral  evil  is  to  all  in- 


Thf  Ministry  of  Sorrow.  323 

tents  and  purposes  the  one  great  problem  of 
the  universe.  To  solve  that  we  make  no  at- 
tempt. No  new  light  has  appeared.  Time, 
therefore,  need  not  be  wasted. 

But  viewing  man  shnply  as  an  emotional  be- 
ing, and  not  as  one  who  is  sinful,  we  may  be 
asked  how  it  is  that  sorrow  arises  in  his  soul. 
It  arises  in  this  way  :  Every  feeling  from  its 
nature  has  two  opposite  movements.  If  a  per- 
son is  joyful  because  some  desirable  object  is 
gained,  he  must  be  sorrowful  when  that  desir- 
able object  is  lost.  We  are  pleased  with  that 
which  suits  us,  and  displeased  with  that  which 
does  not  suit  us.  If  we  love  that  which  is 
good,  we  hate  that  which  is  evil.  I  have  hope 
in  view  of  reward :  I  have  fear  in  view  of 
punishment.  One  class  of  objects  cause  us  to 
move  towards  them  ;  another  class  cause  us  to 
shrink  from  them.  Here  is  a  person  that  we 
trust  :  here  is  another  person  that  we  cannot 
trust.  If  I  am  happy  in  the  companionship 
of  a  friend,  I  am  grieved  when  that  friend  is 
taken  away  from  me.  If  I  have  a  feeling  of 
pleasure  because  I  have  done  right,  then  I 
have  a  feeling  of  pain  because  I  have  done 
wrong.  Joy  courses  through  my  soul  when 
I   hear   that   a  man  is   saved,  therefore  sor- 


324  SOREOW. 

row  when  I  hear  that  a  man  is  lost.  It  is 
the  nature  of  the  human  spirit  to  feel  just 
in  this  ^way. 

In  fact  sorrow,  as  thus  springing  up  in  the 
soul,  is  a  fine  manifestation  of  divine  wisdom. 
It  is  far  better  to  be  made  with  a  nature  that 
grieves,  than  to  be  made  with  one  that  does 
not  grieve  at  all.  There  is  a  greater  compass  to 
our  being  by  the  possession  of  sorrow  than  by 
not  possessing  it.  The  range  of  the  sad  emo- 
tions opens  up  such  a  wide  sphere  of  life  that 
to  be  excluded  from  it  would  be  a  very  great 
loss.  Sorrow  is  wealth.  It  is  possible  for 
more  of  the  real  man  to  appear  in  sorrow  than 
in  any  one  of  the  other  feelings.  Instead  of 
envying  those  who  have  no  tear  to  shed,  we 
rather  sigh  in  view  of  their  condition.  Jesus 
is  far  more  to  us  because  he  could  weep.  To 
live  upon  this  earth  with  all  its  changes  and 
sins  and  behold  no  symptom  of  grief,  would  be 
fearful.  There  may  be  a  great  deal  of  pain 
about  the  sorrow  of  man,  yet  the  sorrow  is  so 
suitable  that  we  would  not  want  souls  to  work 
without  it.  To  attend  a  funeral  and  see  all 
smiling,  or  all  indifferent,  would  not  be  a  very 
desirable  sight.  Surely  love  is  all  the  more 
beautiful  in  that  it  can  weep,  and  mind  is  all 


The  Ministry  of  Soreow.  325 

the  more  precious  in  that  it  can  grieve  over 
its  faU. 

Sorrow  is  2^  great  awahener,  Not  only  does  it 
extend  the  area  of  mental  life  by  its  very 
existence,  but  it  arouses  the  soul  at  different 
points.  The  intellect  awakes,  and  at  once  be- 
holds a  wider  realm.  The  memory  is  made 
to  throw  open  its  gates,  and  to  show  more  of 
its  treasures  than  are  usually  shown.  The 
conscience  is  quickened  and  sharpened.  Some 
of  the  leading  ideas  of  the  reason  come  forth 
more  freely  from  their  seclusion.  The  feelings 
also  are  moved.  Streams  that  were  shallow 
are  now  deepened.  There  is  even  at  times  the 
appearance  of  a  freshet.  The  will  also  is 
turned  about  in  part.  Attention  is  very  much 
increased.  There  is  a  listening  characteristic ; 
sometimes  even  a  listening  with  tears.  As 
music  sounds  sweeter  during  the  night  than 
during  the  day,  so  during  the  night  of  sorrow 
divine  words  fall  more  pleasantly  on  the  ear 
than  they  do  at  other  times. 

Those  great  epochal  periods  which  mark  the 
existence  of  a  higher  form  of  life  are  generally 
preceded  hy  a  baptism  of  sorrow.  The  spirit 
sinks  before  it  rises.  Entering  the  door  of 
grief,  the  soul  finds   itself  in  the  midst  of  a 


326  SoEEow. 

temple.  There  is  no  waste  of  .time.  The  pro- 
gress is  rapid.  The  golden  point  is  reached  as 
it  were  at  once.  There  is  simply  the  divine 
sorrow  ;  the  crisis  ;  the  new  cycle  of  life  begun. 
As  a  case  illustrating  the  thought  before  us,  we 
may  point  to  the  Rev.  Dr.  Brown  of  Edin- 
burgh. His  son  thus  writes  :  "  My  mother's 
death  was  the  second  epoch  in  my  father's  life  ; 
and  for  a  man  so  self-reliant,  so  poised  upon  a 
centre  of  his  own,  it  is  wonderful  the  extent  of 
change  it  made.  He  went  home,  preached  her 
funeral  sermon,  every  one  in  the  church  in  tears, 
himself  outwardly  unmoved.  But  from  that 
time  dates  an  entire,  though  always  deepening, 
alteration  in  his  preaching,  because  an  entire 
change  in  his  way  of  dealing  with  God's  word. 
He  took  as  it  were  to  subsoil  ploughing;  he 
got  a  new  and  adamantine  point  to  the  instru- 
ment with  which  he  bored,  and  with  a  fresh 
power — with  his  whole  might,  he  sunk  it  right 
down  into  the  living  rock,  to  the  virgin  gold. 
His  entire  nature  had  got  a  shock,  and  his 
blood  was  drawn  inwards,  his  surface  was  chill- 
ed ;  but  fuel  was  heaped  all  the  more  on  the 
inner  fires,  and  his  zeal  burned  with  a  new  ar- 
dor ;  indeed  had  he  not  found  an  outlet  for  his 
pent-up  energy,  his  brain  must  have  given  way, 


The  Ministry  of  Sorrow.  327 

and  his  faculties  have  either  consumed  them- 
selves in  wild,  wasteful  splendor  and  combus- 
tion, or  dwindled  into  lethargy.''  "  He  changed 
his  entire  system  and  fashion  of  preaching ; 
from  being  elegant,  rhetorical,  and  ambitious, 
he  became  concentrated,  urgent,  moving  (being 
himself  moved,)  keen,  searching,  unswerving, 
authoritative  to  fierceness,  full  of  the  terrors  of 
the  Lord,  if  he  could  but  persuade  men."* 

A  person  with  sorrow  can  understand  more 
correctly  the  race  to  which  he  belongs  than  one 
who  is  destitute  of  sorrow.  Only  he  who 
knows  by  experience  what  fear,  guilt,  remorse, 
unrest,  and  sorrow  are,  can  speak  to  the  con- 
sciousness of  troubled  men.  A  mind  that  has 
gone  through  the  whole  round  of  mental  pain 
can  address  the  whole  race  and  be  understood. 
Those  flippant  and  gleeful  beings  who  talk  of 
man,  merely  skim  the  surface.  "No  poet  has 
so  well  understood  as  Shakespeare  has  the 
trials  which  burden  contemplative  and  inquir- 
ing spirits  with  inward  struggles  and  with  men- 
tal griefs,  and  troublous  thinkings  and  uneasy 
doubts,  with  unanswerable  questionings  as  to 
the  problem  of  existence,  the  meaning  of  life 

*  Dr.  Brown's  Spare  Hours,  p.  134. 


328  Sorrow. 

and  the  mystery  of  death.  As  Shakespeare's 
genius  seems  thus  to  have  within  itself  the 
consciousness  of  all  moral  humanity,  in  both  its 
essence  and  phenomena,  in  its  good  and  evil, 
in  its  truth  and  error, — so  is  that  genius  rich 
beyond  any  other  earthly  genius  in  exhortation 
and  counsel,  in  threatening  and  encouragement, 
in  suggestions  of  guidance,  strength,  and  wis- 
dom, of  remedy,  or  of  consolation."  "Without 
being  in  any  formal  sense  religious,  the  intellect 
of  Shakespeare  is  habitually  contemplative  of 
religious  ideas,  and  an  abiding  sense  of  an  in- 
visible and  infinite  existence  fuses  itself  into  all 
the  deeper  workings  of  his  genius.  Musiiigs  of 
the  soul  from  the  centre  of  its  solitude  we 
detect  in  all  his  graver  thinkings.  These  mus- 
ings are  not  always  from  a  soul  at  peace,  but 
they  are  always  from  a  soul  in  reverence.  They 
have  in  them  much  of  Teutonic  sadness  j  they 
have  also  in  them  some  Teutonic  doubt.  The 
awful  question  of  existence  is  considered  in 
every  aspect  in  which  a  sublime  anxiety  can. 
place  it ;  and  in  every  aspect  it  is  made  fruitful 
of  meditation.*'* 

A  great  sorrow  may  be  looked  upon  as  a 

*  Henry  Giles.  Human  Life  in  Shakespeare,  pp.  41,  245. 


The  Ministry  of  Sorhow.  329 

well-Gompadtd  means  of  good  to  the  human 
souL  There  is  pressure,  but  the  pressure  is 
wisely  arranged,  and  the  blessing  that  results 
from  it  is  greater  than  it  seems.  Divine  riches 
came  to  Abraham  when  Grod  himself  tried  him. 
The  sorrows  of  death  may  be  the  appointenl 
means  to  usher  the  soul  into  an  endless  life.  It 
is  certainly  a  fact  that  sorrow  subdues  and 
chastens  the  wild  spirit  of  man.  Persons  of  an 
exceedingly  rough  nature  become  gentle  and 
childlike  by  the  sacred  ministry  of  grief.  There 
is  not  so  much  severity,  not  so  much  stubborn- 
ness, not  so  much  pride.  The  vanity  of  life 
is  fell  also  more  than  formerly  ;  and  the 
great  future  stands  out  before  the  mind.  The 
wounded  spirit  bows  before  the  Supreme  Will 
and  struggles  to  be  better. 

Grief  reminds  us  that  life  is  a  discipline. 
There  is  a  very  strong  tendency  among  human 
beings  to  take  things  easy.  Man  does  not 
want  to  be  troubled.  He  would  like  to  have  a 
pleasant  passage  to  the  future.  This,  however, 
will  not  answer.  The  sinful  soul  must  be  tried 
and  trained  if  it  would  be  fitted  for  the  great 
life  of  eternity.  We  must  face  the  evil  that  is 
about  us  ;  must  carry  a  cross  from  infancy  to 
old  age.     Latent  energies  are  called  forth  by 


330  SoEEOw. 

severe  afflictions.  The  loss  of  sight  has  so 
stirred  the  souls  of  some  men  that  they  have 
done  wonders  in  their  blindness.  No  one  can 
tell  what  he  is  or  what  he  can  do  until  a  great 
sorrow  has  struck  him.  The  nightingale  sings 
the  sweetest  when  wounded  ;  so  does  many  a 
suffering  child  of  God.  "Richard  Baxter,  dur- 
ing his  whole  life,  might  be  almost  said  to  die 
daily.  Hardly  ever  was  such  a  mind  connected 
with  so  frail  an  earthly  lodging-place.  At 
about  fourteen  years  of  age  he  was  seized  with 
the  small-pox,  and  soon  after,  by  improper  ex- 
posure to  the  cold,  he  was  affected  by  violent 
catarrh  and  cough.  This  continued  for  about 
two  years,  and  was  followed  by  spitting  of 
blood.  One  physician  prescribed  one  mode  of 
cure,  and  another  a  different  one  ;  tiU,  from 
first  to  last,  he  had  the  advice  of  no  less  than 
thirty-six  professors  of  the  healing  art.  He 
was  diseased  literally  from  head  to  feet ;  his 
stomach  acidulous,  violent  rheumatic  headaches, 
prodigious  bleeding  at  the  nose,  his  blood  so 
thin  and  acrid  that  it  oozed  out  from  the  points 
of  his  fingers,  and  often  kept  them  raw  and 
bloody.  His  physicians  called  it  hypoclion- 
dria.  He  himself  considered  it  to  be  premature 
old  age  ;  so  that  at  twenty  he  had  the  symp- 


The  Ministry  of  Soekow.  331 

tonis,  in  addition  to  disease,  of  four-score.  He 
was  certainly  one  of  the  most  diseased  and  af- 
flicted men  that  ever  reached  the  ordinary 
limits  of  human  life.  How,  under  such  circum- 
stances, he  was  capable  of  making  the  exertions 
which  he  almost  incessantly  made,  appears  not 
a  little  mysterious.  His  labors  were  prodigious. 
The  works  he  wrote,  if  printed  in  a  uniform 
edition,  could  not  be  comprised  in  less  than 
sixty  volumes,  making  at  least  thirty-five  thous- 
and closely  printed  octavo  pages.  At  the  same 
time,  his  labors  as  a  minister,  and  his  engage- 
ments in  the  public  business  of  his  times,  formed 
his  chief  employment  for  many  years."*  How 
one  feels  ashamed  and  humbled,  yet  also  in- 
spired, when  he  sees  how  much  a  single  human 
being  can  accomplish  though  pressed  to  the 
earth  with  trouble.  There  is  a  royalty  about 
mind  when  it  can  thus  toil  in  the  midst  of  pain 
and  sadness.  Far  better  is  it  for  the  soul  to 
reach  heaven  through  a  discipline  of  sorrow 
than  through  the  quiet  ministry  of  joy.  The 
creaturely  spirit  has  more  of  vigor  and  endur- 
ance by  the  one  kind  of  training  than  it  has  by 
the  other.     The  north  temperate  zone  of  the 

*  Prof.  B.  B.  Edwards'  Biography  of  Self  Taught  Men,  voL  i., 
p.  234. 


332  SoERow. 

spiritual  world  develops  the  noblest  minds. 
Among  the  ancient  Greeks  there  were  persons 
who  engaged  in  a  race  with  lighted  lamps  or 
torches  ;  and  that  person  was  the  victor  whose 
lamp  did  not  go  put  in  the  race.  It  was  not 
an  easy  thing  to  gain  the  prize  upon  such  con- 
ditions. Great  labor,  wisdom,  and  watchful- 
ness were  demanded.  Our  life  is  a  torch-light 
race.  Through  very  many  difficulties  we  must 
press  forward  ;  guarding  our  light  lest  it  should 
be  extinguished.  God  did  not  mean  that  we 
should  gain  an  established  character  and  an 
eternal  crown  without  painful  effort. 

Infinite  Goodness  frequently  breaks  up  our 
plans  through  the  agency  of  sorrow  because 
there  w^as  too  much  of  self  in  them.  If  we  could 
once  see  the  amount  of  selfish  planning  in  this 
world  we  should  be  appalled.  Even  many 
schemes  which  we  imagine  to  be  benevolent 
are  grounded  in  selfishness.  A  vast  number  of 
things  are  done  in  life  under  the  supposition 
that  we  are  acting  for  the  glory  of  God, 
when  in  fiict  we  are  simply  striving  to  escape 
from  a  little  trouble  and  to  gain  a  little  more 
comfort  and  happiness  than  we  now  possess. 
It  is  well  that  Divine  Love  does  not  always 
allow  us  to  have  our  own  way.     It  is  good  that 


The  Ministry  of  Sorrow.  333 

our  cup  of  pleasure  is  dashed  to  the  ground  j 
good  that  we  are  compelled  to  begin  life  anew 
with  deeper  spiritual  affections  and  more  divine 
thoughts.  The  loss  of  a  wife  that  we  loved,  of 
a  child  that  was  the  joy  of  our  heart,  of  a  father 
or  friend  on  whom  we  trusted,  has  forced 
us  to  reconsider  and  to  be  more  wise.  As  the 
manna  which  nourished  the  Israelites  for  forty 
years  descended  during  the  night,  so  during 
our  night  of  trial  blessings  come  to  us  from 
heaven.  There  is  a  tradition  that  in  the  cell  in 
which  Joseph  was  confined  a  fountain  of  water 
appeared,  and  at  his  door  a  tree,—  the  one  to 
quench  his  thirst,  and  the  other  to  furnish  him 
with  fruit  and  a  shade.  But  when  Joseph 
seemed  to  forget  God  by  invoking  the  help  of 
man,  we  are  told  that  the  water  dried  up  and 
the  tree  withered.  This  is  an  instructive  sym- 
bol of  the  way  in  which  the  Supreme  Being 
treats  his  creatures.  There  is  a  time  of  sorrow 
when  blessings  surround  our  habitation  ;  but 
quite  soon  forgetting  the  Author  of  these  bless- 
ings, they  are  withdrawn  ;  leaving  us  to  think 
of  Grod  and  goodness  in  the  midst  of  darkness. 
Whatever  may  be  the  benefits  which  result 
from  the  ministry  of  grief,  a  changed  heart  is 
not  one  of  these  benefits.     Sorrow  has  no  re- 


334  SoKROw. 

demptive  power.  It  is  simply  a  means  which 
may  be  used  by  the  Eternal  Spirit  in  the  work 
of  purifying  the  souL  Some  have  so  written 
and  talked  about  sorrow  as  to  convey  the  idea 
that  it  is  the  chief  healing  agent  in  this  world. 
No  sentiment  is  more  delusive  and  dangerous 
than  this.  We  have  been  astonished  many  a 
time  to  see  what  little  influence  the  deepest 
sorrow  has  had  upon  the  character.  The  tears 
that  are  shed  over  the  loss  of  friends  are  not 
the  tears  of  repentance.  The  grief  may  not 
extend  beyond  the  natural  sympathies.  It  may 
simply  be  the  pain  of  severed  feelings.  We 
have  almost  thought  sometimes  that  pungent 
sorrow  really  stood  in  the  way  of  a  thorough 
reformation  of  character.  The  mind  was  so 
occupied  with  it  that  the  attention  could  not  be 
gained,  and  a  good  impression  could  not  be 
made.  With  all  the  sorrow  and  solemnity  of 
funeral  occasions,  how  very  seldom  it  is  that 
souls  are  ever  converted  at  such  times  ;  yet  it 
would  be  our  first  thought  that  they  would  be 
the  most  favorable  seasons  for  that  purpose. 
I  am  not  aware  that  the  great  plagues  of  his- 
tory have  generally  resulted  in  a  high  spiritual 
life.  Man  can  go  through  anything  and  be  no 
better.      As   the   coral   islands   sleep   on   the 


The  Ministey  of  Sorrow.  335 

bosom  of  a  melancholy  sea,  heeding  not  the 
wail  and  murmur  of  its  waves,  so  mortal  men 
sleep  away  their  golden  hours  amidst  the  sighs 
and  sorrows  of  life,  unmindful  of  that  soul  that 
is  so  valuable  and  that  future  that  is  so  near. 
The  truth  is,  human  character  is  not  a  very 
easy  thing  to  remedy.  It  is  more  easy  to  im- 
prove it  in  our  imagination  and  on  paper  than 
it  is  to  do  so  in  reality.  No  complete  change 
will  ever  take  place  in  the  state  of  the  moral 
nature  save  as  it  is  the  result  of  divine  power. 
Sorrow  may  beautify  certain  characters  up  to  a 
certain  point,  but  when  that  point  is  reached 
the  ability  is  gone.  Grief  and  pain  are  never 
more  than  secondary  causes.  Even  the  highest 
truth  and  the  most  convincing  arguments  are 
simply  weapons  that  may  be  used  by  a  divine 
hand. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

SORROW  ALLEVIATED  AND  DESTROYED. 

THE  attempt  to  drown  trouble  is  common 
among  men.  To  obtain  relief,  or  to  escape 
from  self,  is  what  is  wanted.  The  goodness  or 
badness  of  a  course  is  not  always  thought  of. 
The  exciting  and  stupefying  are  apt  to  be 
chosen.  Trouble  is  lost  sight  of  for  the  moment. 
The  man  seems  to  be  another  man.  He  lives 
in  a  new  world.  There  is  no  reason,  however, 
in  all  this.  The  quiet  that  is  gained  is  nothhig 
but  di.  forgetting  ;  it  is  a  not-thinhing .  Stupidity 
is  made  a  virtue  ;  secularism  is  turned  into 
sanctification  ;  that  which  is  godless  is  thought 
of  as  the  ultimate  life.  The  attempt  to  culti- 
vate unconsciousness,  to  shut  the  eyes  and  be 
lost  in  a  reverie  of  forgetfulness,  is  simply 
Buddhism  over  again.  The  man  who  ap- 
proaches the  nearest  to  the  Supreme  Nothing 
is  in  this  way  the  most  happy  man. 


Sorrow  Alleviated.  337 

When  the  Persians  in  former  times  gained  a 
victory,  they  were  accustomed  to  select  the  best 
slave,  clothe  him  in  the  garb  of  royalty,  make 
him  a  king  for  three  days,  give  him  all  that  he 
wanted  ;  but  the  man  who  was  thus  so  happily 
circumstanced  was  put  to  death  at  the  end  of  the 
three  days.  Many  a  one  is  trying  to  make 
himself  a  king  for  three  days,  not  thinking  that 
at  the  end  of  that  period  he  is  to  be  cut  down. 
To  lessen  sorrow  by  such  means  is  madness. 
There  are  methods  of  alleviation  which  are 
reasonable,  and  which  may  be  adopted  on  that 
account.     A  statement  of  these  we  now  present. 

Umployment  is  life  for  one  who  is  cast  down 
in  his  mind.  Work  presents  an  object  which 
is  suitable,  while  at  the  same  time  it  occupies 
the  mind.  Calvin,  writing  in  regard  to  the 
death  of  his  wife,  says  :  "  Although  I  am  very 
much  bowed  down,  I  continue  to  fulfill  diligently 
all  the  duties  of  my  office."  To  brood  over 
one's  troubles  is  to  sink  deeper  into  night.  The 
sooner,  therefore,  a  man  begins  to  attend  to 
that  which  is  useful,  the  better  it  is  for  him. 
Even  if  one  has  to  whip  himself  into  labor,  let 
it  be  done.  That  which  is  a  task  at  first  will 
be  a  pleasure  in  due  time.  If  skill .  and 
patience  are  manifested,  these  traits  are  pleas- 


338  SoERow. 

ing  to  the  mind.  If  one  does  a  good  and  prof- 
itable day's  work,  there  is  a  feehng  of  satisfac- 
tion. Labor  which  has  no  reward,  while  it 
may  be  beneficial  to  both  body  and  mind,  is 
not  so  beneficial  as  when  it  does  have  a  reward. 
A  sad,  poor  man  becomes  a  new  man  when 
gold  meets  him  with  its  smile. 

Our  sorrow  is  less  than  it  would  be  just  be- 
cause we  have  a  body  that  must  he  cared  for. 
The  sorrow  of  a  spirit  that  has  no  body  must 
be  exceedingly  intense.  Mind  in  such  a  case 
is  left  to  itself.  Sharp  emotions  take  their  own 
way.  There  is  no  leaning  upon  materialism  in 
order  to  keep  the  soul  from  sinking, — the 
drowning  creature  has  no  plank.  Mere  body 
provides  occupation  to  the  mind.  There  is 
something  to  do  as  matter  of  necessity.  Food 
and  drink  are  to  be  thought  of,  clothing  and 
cleanliness,  exposure  to  the  weather  and  seclu- 
sion from  it,  fire  to  warm  and  light  for  dark 
hours.  The  simple  instinct  to  live  is  a  power 
against  grief.  The  feeling  of  self-preservation 
leaves  sorrow  in  the  background.  He  who 
kills  himself  because  of  trouble,  cuts  away  the 
covering  of  the  pit  and  drops  into  it.  When 
an  unhappy  soul  realizes  that  its  body  is  gone, 
it  would  seem  as  if  it  would  move  back  and 


SoRKOW  Alleviated.  339 

around  in  order  to  find  it.  The  feeling  must 
be  strange  and  painful ;  there  is  a  loss  and  a 
want.  When  a  man's  hand  or  foot  is  amputat- 
ed, there  is  a  sensation  as  if  it  were  still  in  the 
old  place.  May  the  soul  not  have  a  similar 
feeling  when  it  has  lost  its  body  ? 

The  influence  of  a  hri^k  walk  tends  to  lighten 
the  heavy  heart.  The  system  is  stimulated ;  the 
vapors  are  swept  away  from  the  soul  ;  there  is 
a  clear  sky,  and  a  feeling  of  being  refreshed. 
Augustine  mentions  that  some  persons  had  the 
idea  that  the  hath  received  its  name  (balneum) 
because  it  drives  sadness  from  the  mind.  I  can 
understand  how  this  might  be  so.  Bathing  re- 
vives the  body,  and  in  so  far  as  it  does  this  it 
revives  the  soul.  Air  and  water,  light  and  ex- 
ercise, have  a  bearing  upon  the  spiritual  as  well 
as  upon  the  physical  nature.  When  sadness 
can  be  spoken  of  as  a  feeling  of  heaviness,  a 
dull  taciturnity,  a  want  of  interest  in  all  hunian 
things,  in  that  case  a  quick  walk  or  a  run  is  a 
suitable  medicine.  "  A  hypochondriacal  student 
of  Oxford,  after  a  life  of  bodily  indolence,  im- 
agined himself  on  the  point  of  death,  and 
ordered  the  bell  to  be  tolled,  that  he  might 
hear  it  before  he  died.  He  had  been  fond  of 
bell-ringing,  but  finding  it  now  to  be  execrable, 


340  Sorrow. 

he  leaped  out  of  bed,  and  hastened  to  the  bel- 
fry to  show  how  the  bell  ought  to  be  rung.  He 
then  returned  to  his  room  that  he  might  die 
decently.  But  the  exercise  had  cured  him; 
and  having  been  once  diverted,  he  could  now 
continue  to  attend  to  other  subjects  than  his 
own  morbid  impressions.  From  that  time  his 
reason  and  health  returned  together."* 

What  a  blessing  is  sleep  to  the  sorrowful. 
There  are  natures  that  view  it  as  their  chief 
friend.  Not  because  sleep  heals  the  wounded 
heart  do  they  love  it  ;  but  they  love  it  because 
it  is  a  means  by  which  they  lose  sight  of  their 
misery.  Yet  such  persons  do  not  sleep  with 
great  quietness.  They  dream  ;  and  their 
dreams  are  not  pleasant.  Once  in  a  while  they 
sigh  ;  once  in  a  while  they  groan  ;  uneasy  in 
spirit  they  turn  round  ;  they  gather  the  clothes 
tightly  about  them  as  if  to  shelter  themselves 
from  evil.  Poor  as  the  sleep  is,  it  is  yet  a 
blessing  to  such  troubled  natures.  The  friction 
of  the  mind  abates  a  little;  the  cancerous  sor- 
row stops  somewhat  of  its  gnawing.  There 
are  sad  people,  however,  to  whom  sleep  is  not 
merely  a  refuge,  but  a  positive  refreshnient. 
Their  dreams  are  not  shaded  in  the  least  by 

*  Dr.  Moore,  The  Body  aud  Mind,  p.  306. 


SORKOW  AXLEVIATED.  341 

sorrow  ;  all  is  pleasant.  Mr.  Moffat,  the  mis- 
eionary  to  Southern  Africa,  mentions  the  fol- 
lowing. Says  he  :  '*We  continued  our  slow 
and  silent  march  for  hours.  The  tongue  cleav- 
ing to  the  roof  of  the  mouth  from  thirst,  made 
conversation  extremely  difficult.  At  last  we 
reached  the  long-wished-for  waterfall  ;  but  it 
was  too  late  to  ascend  the  hill.  We  allowed  our 
poor  worn-out  horses  to  go  where  they  pleased  ; 
and  having  kindled  a  small  fire,  we  talked 
about  our  lost  companions.  We  bowed  the 
knee  to  Him  who  had  mercifully  preserved  us, 
and  laid  our  heads  on  our  saddles.  The  last 
sound  we  heard  to  soothe  us,  was  the  distant 
roar  of  the  lion,  but  we  were  too  much  ex- 
hausted to  feel  anything  like  fear.  Sleep  came 
to  our  relief,  and  it  seemed  made  up  of  scenes 
the  most  lovely,  forming  a  glowing  contrast  to 
our  real  situation.  I  felt  as  if  engaged,  during 
my  short  repose,  in  roving  among  ambrosial 
bowers  of  paradisaical  delight,  hearing  sounds  of 
music,  as  if  from  angels'  harps ;  it  was  the  night 
wind  falling  on  my  ears  from  the  neighboring 
hill.  I  seemed  to  pass  from  stream  to  stream, 
in  which  I  bathed  and  slaked  my  thirst  at 
many  a  crystal  fount,  flowing  from  golden 
mountains  enriched  with  hving  green.     These 


342  Sorrow. 

Elysian  pleasures  continued  till  morning  dawn, 
when  we  awoke,  speechless  with  thirst,  our 
eyes  inflamed,  and  our  whole  frames  burning 
like  a  coal.''* 

Even  laughter  has  a  tendency  to  break  up 
the  spell  of  sadness.  A  person  who  is  cast 
down  because  of  some  misfortune,  and  who  is 
looking  upon  hfe  as  dark  and  discouraging, 
may  receive  a  new  impulse  from  a  hearty 
laugh.  A  comic  remark  addressed  to  a  sick 
man  inchned  to  despondency,  may  be  the  very 
antidote  which  he  needs.  The  influence  of  the 
ludicrous  in  tending  to  lessen  the  troubles  of 
life  is  far  greater  than  we  are  apt  to  suppose. 
There  are  thousands  of  irritating  circumstances 
which  might  worry  the  soul  exceedingly,  if  it 
were  not  for  the  simple  power  of  laughter. 
Times  there  may  be,  serious  and  deeply  affect- 
ing, when  to  laugh  is  a  sin  ;  yet  there  are  other 
times  when  to  laugh  is  a  duty. 

Music  alleviates  a  sorrowful  mind.  If  the 
sorrow  is  wild  and  excitable,  a  soft  sweet  tune 
subdues  the  spirit.  If  there  be  a  dull  and  slug- 
gish melancholy,  exhilarating  music  will  arouse 
the  soul.     If  dark  designs  lurk  beneath   the 

*  Scenes  in  Southern  Africa,  p.  115. 


Sorrow  Alleviated.  343 

melancholy,  celestial  music  may  drive  them 
away.  The  evil  spirit  departed  from  Saul  when 
David  played  upon  his  harp.  Not  all  kinds  of 
music,  however,  will  dispel  sorrow.  When  the 
music  is  sad  it  produces  sadness.  The  slum- 
bering grief  is  awakened  by  such  an  agency. 
The  plaintive  tune  strikes  the  memory.  For- 
gotten times  and  persons  are  remembered.  A 
wave  of  sorrow  rolls  over  the  spirit.  Tears  fall. 
It  should  be  noted,  however,  that  the  sorrow 
which  results  from  music  h-AS  pleasure  connected 
with  it.  This  fact  makes  it  a  kind  of  relief. 
Many  love  plaintive  music  just  because  they 
love  sadness.  The  sadness  seems  to  be  all  the 
more  attractive  in  that  it  mingles  with  the  soft 
and  beautiful  strains  of  music. 

2o  manifest  friendship  towards  one  who  is  in 
trouble  is  pleasing  to  him.  The  happy  conver- 
sation of  a  friend  spreads  sunshine  over  the 
soul,  and  his  kind  attentions  ease  the  heart.  A 
gift  to  the  sorrowful  has  a  fine  influence.  An 
act  of  self-denial  is  greatly  prized.  Then  if  the 
person  in  trouble  is  assisted  by  one  who  him- 
self is  in  trouble,  the  act  is  doubly  pleasing. 
Suffering  adds  value  to  the  deed  of  kindness. 
Let  a  dying  soldier  divide  his  last  drop  of  water 
with  another  soldier  who  is  wounded, — the  im- 


344:  Sorrow. 

pression  made  is  deep  and  tender.  Communi.1^ 
of  suffering  seems  also  to  lessen  pain.  It  is  a 
remark  of  Rousseau,  that  "nothing  so  cordially 
attaches  two  persons  as  the  satisfaction  of 
weeping  together."  There  is  truth  in  this 
statement.  To  mingle  with  a  person  during  a 
season  of  great  affliction  is  to  make  that  person 
our  friend.  The  love  that  rises  out  of  sorrow 
is  quite  enduring.  I  should  suppose  that  Ch'-ist 
and  the  penitent  thief  had  a  union  of  feelings 
that  was  exceedingly  close  and  tender.  I  have 
even  imagined  that  the  Saviour  was  cheered 
during  his  last  hours  by  the  very  look  and  words 
of  the  repentant  man  who  hung  at  his  side. 

Nature  and  art  put  new  life  into  the  droop- 
ing spirit.  A  gorgeous  sunrise  or  sunset ; 
islands  gemming  the  waters  on  which  we  are 
sailing ;  hills,  plains,  and  winding  streams  j 
cattle  reclining  in  the  shade  and  men  at  work 
in  the  field  ;  towns  and  trees  and  far  off  sights 
which  line  the  horizon, — these  charm  the  eve 
of  the  Stid.  Architectural  beauty,  statuary  and 
painting  of  a  superior  kind,  gardens  displaying 
great  taste  in  their  arrangement,  inspire  and 
please.  Says  Zimmerman  :  "I  cannot  recollect 
without  shedding  tears  of  gratitude  and  joy,  a 
single  day  of  the  early  part  of  my  residence  in 


SoBEOW  Alleviated.  345 

Hanover,  when  torn  from  the  bosom  of  my 
country,  from  the  embraces  of  my  family,  and 
from  everything  that  I  held  dear  in  my  life,  my 
mind,  on  entering  the  little  garden  of  my 
deceased  friend,  M.  de  Himber,  near  Hanover, 
immediately  revived,  and  forgot,  for  the  mo- 
ment, both  my  country  and  my  grief" 

Aside  from  these  various  thoughts,  I  am  con- 
vinced that  sorrow  can  be  considerably  weak- 
ened by  the  simple  power  o^  self -determination. 
Unless  one  does  rise  up  in  all  the  force  and 
majesty  of  the  personal  soul,  he  will  many  a 
time  be  lost  in  gloom.  It  is  a  dangerous  thing 
to  allow  sadness  to  become  the  controlUng 
agent  in  the  mind's  movements.  Deep  mental 
depression  unfits  for  action.  Success  in  life 
may  be  gone  forever  by  the  presence  of  a  dark 
melancholy.  One  has  no  heart  to  do  anything. 
Backwardness,  timidity,  the  loss  of  a  proper 
self-confidence,  chain  the  soul,  and  all  is  lost. 
The  person  must  feel  that  it  will  never  answer 
thus  to  give  way  to  a  depression  of  spirits.  A 
bold  stand  must  be  taken.  The  latent  power 
of  the  soul  must  be  called  forth  to  do  battle 
against  the  enemy.  It  is  a  matter  of  life  or 
death,  and  one  must  be  in  earnest.  Sorrow 
may  he   a  sin.     This  should  be   understood. 


34:6  SoBPow. 

We  have  no  right  to  waste  our  time,  weaken 
our  influence,  and  draw  off  the  very  hfe  of  the 
soul  by  melancholy  musings.  There  is  a  great 
deal  of  sad  feeling  caused  by  fretfulness  and 
pride,  which  never  can  be  justified.  Extreme 
sensitiveness  should  be  guarded  against.  Per- 
sons of  great  accomphshments  should  know  that 
it  is  not  possible  to  pass  through  this  life  and 
be  fully  appreciated.  All  the  excellences  of 
any  particular  mind  are  not  seen  by  surround- 
ing minds.  The  care  which  a  man  takes  in 
some  special  vocation  is  only  known  to  himself; 
he  cannot,  therefore,  expect  that  other  men 
will  honor  him  as  he  deserves.  There  is  no 
need  of  being  grieved  because  of  this.  It  is  a 
foolish  thing  for  a  man  to  sink  into  hopeless 
melancholy  just  because  human  beings  will  not 
admire  the  fine  piece  of  work  which  he  has 
done.  Fame  is  but  a  name  ;  and  to  be  truly 
great  one  must  rise  above  it.  If  apart  from  all 
consequences  we  must  do  right  for  right's  sake, 
then  apart  from  all  praise  we  must  ^im  at  per- 
fection in  any  sphere  for  perfection's  sake.  It 
is  well  enough  to  know,  however,  that  although 
mental  and  moral  excellence  may  be  lightly 
esteemed  while  one  is  living,  it  may  be  appre- 
ciated after  one  is  dead.     How  many  poets, 


SoREOW  Alleviated.  347 

musicians,  philosophers,  and  reformers  have 
gained  a  verdict  in  their  favor  after  death,  who 
in  their  hfetime  gained  nothing  but  hatred. 
Almost  every  great  character  is  struck  at  by 
envy,  and  distorted  by  prejudice.  But  when 
death  has  consigned  exalted  persons  and  mean 
passions  to  the  sepulchre,  truth  and  reason 
come  forth  to  do  their  work. 

The  points  stated  thus  far,  tend  to  mitigate 
sorrow.  No  one  should  think,  however,  that 
grief  can  be  destroyed  by  such  means.  Some- 
thing deeper  and  more  thorough  is  demanded. 
We  turn,  therefore,  to  a  class  of  thoughts  which 
look  to  the  expulsion  of  sadness  from  the  soul. 

Devout  thinking  upon  exalted  topics  has  a  ten- 
dency to  settle  and  soothe  the  soul.  Great 
thoughts  when  they  enter  a  receptive  human 
spirit  are  fitted  to  start  a  class  of  high  and  pure 
emotions.  As  the  rough  music  of  the  Alpine 
horn  is  rendered  sweet  and  beautiful  by  coming 
in  contact  with  the  surrounding  mountains,  so 
the  downcast  soul  of  man  is  quickened  and  ele- 
vated by  coming  in  contact  with  eternal  and 
divine  ideas.  The  mind  is  lifted  out  of  its 
region  of  dampness  and  darkness,  and  made  to 
face  the  pure  and  healthful  objects  of  existence. 
Facing  such  objects  it  lives.     The  change   is 


34:8  SoRKow. 

like  that  of  a  man  who  passes  from  a  dmigeon 
to  a  palace.  If  the  topics  of  thought  have  the 
element  of  certainty,  the  mind  has  a  more  solid 
repose  from  the  fact.  In  so  far  as  I  am  con- 
fused I  am  restless.  I  may  say  also  that  truths 
which  are  massive  have  a  great  power  to  steady 
the  mind.  A  single  great  object  will  quiet  the 
soul  much  better  than  a  multitude  of  small 
objects.  With  one  great  object  the  entire  soul 
is  centered,  and  brought  into  a  state  of  rest. 
Mark  the  influence  of  a  word  which  is  known 
to  come  directly  from  the  Divine  Being !  Men 
have  endured  persecution  with  joy,  because 
they  could  lean  upon  some  definite  utterance  of 
God.  The  surest  w^ay  to  comfort  the  soul  of  a 
good  man  is  to  press  into  his  consciousness  a 
divine  promise.  There  is  an  authority  con- 
nected with  a  word  from  God  which  at  once 
gains  the  assent  of  the  soul,  and  which  sweeps 
away  all  doubts,  fears,  and  discouragements. 
How  many  have  fallen  asleep  in  death,  resting 
upon  a  divine  sentence  !  uttering  to  themselves 
a  golden  passage  as  they  passed  over  the  river. 
Even  careless  men  are  exceedingly  anxious  to 
find  an  express  statement  of  God  by  which  to 
comfort  their  heart ;  and  if  they  cannot  find 
such  a  statement,  they  will  at  least  imagine 


Sorrow  Alleviated.  349 

that  the  Most  High  looks  favorably  upon  them, 
and  so  with  that  imagination  they  will  stay  up 
their  soul.  The  conviction  is  strong  that  the 
good  wiU  of  the  Supreme  Being  is  everything. 
A  reception  of  the  divine  remedy  is  God's  way 
of  curing  sorrow.  Under  a  pressing  necessity 
we  must  look  upward  for  help.  Niebuhr,  after 
he  had  buried  his  wife,  and  apparently  all  his 
hopes  and  happiness,  says  :  "I  was  able  to 
weep  bitterly,  and  to  pray  from  the  bottom  of 
my  heart."  The  weeping  bitterly  was  a  relief: 
the  praying  from  the  bottom  of  the  heart 
brought  a  blessing  from  Heaven.  Human 
power  cannot  effect  the  cure  of  sorrow.  Prayer 
is  the  first  duty.  It  points  to  a  want  to  be 
filled,  a  pain  to  be  eased,  a  sin  to  be  slain. 
Lord,  help  me,  is  the  beginning  of  hfe.  Many  a 
weary  mind  has  found  rest  in  prayer  when  it 
could  find  it  in  no  other  way.  He  who  tells 
God  his  sorrows  will  soon  thank  God  for  his 
comforts.  There  is  an  idea  that  was  believed 
in  by  some  of  the  ancients,  which  is  really  very 
significant.  It  was  thought  that  around  those 
whom  the  gods  loved  a  cloud  was  thrown  to 
protect  them  in  time  of  danger.  The  good 
who  were  inside  of  this  cloud  could  see  through 
it,  and  thus  could  behold  those  who  would  do 


350  SoBRow. 

them  injury  ;  but  the  pecuharity  of  it  was,  that 
the  enemies  who  were  outside  could  not  see 
through  the  cloud,  and  consequently  there  was 
no  way  by  which  to  harm  the  good.  So 
troubled  and  trembling  men  dwell  safely  under 
the  shadow  of  God's  wing  when  they  pray. 
The  more  of  faith  also  we  have  in  a  Divine  Re- 
deemer, the  less  of  sorrow  we  have.  To  take 
the  soul  with  its  burden  of  sin,  sadness,  and 
guilt,  and  place  that  in  the  hands  of  Christ  is 
to  find  rest.  It  is  wonderiul  the  repose  that 
comes  to  an  anxious  spirit  when  once  it  allows 
the  Saviour  to  take  the  responsibility  of  its  sal- 
vation. Men  are  crushed  with  grief  because 
they  will  not  believe. 

Yaughan,  in  his  "Hours  with  the  Mystics," 
mentions  the  following  incident:  "There  was 
once  a  learned  man  who  longed  and  prayed 
full  eight  years  that  God  would  show  him  some 
one  to  teach  him  the  way  of  truth.  And  on  a 
time,  as  he  was  in  a  great  longing,  there  came 
unto  him  a  voice  from  heaven,  and  said,  '  Go  to 
the  front  of  the  church,  there  wilt  thou  find  a 
man  that  shall  show  thee  the  way  to  blessed- 
ness.' So  thither  he  went,  and  found  there  a 
poor  man  whose  feet  were  torn  and  covered 
with  dust  and  dirt,  and  all  his  apparel  scarce 


SoEEOW  Alleviated.  351 

three  hellers  worth.  He  greeted  him,  saying, 
'  God  give  thee  good  morrow.'  Thereat  made 
he  answer,  'I  never  had  an  ill  morrow.'  Again 
said  he,  'God  prosper  thee.'  The  other  an- 
swered, 'Never  had  I  aught  but  prosperity.' 
'Explain  to  me  this,'  said  the  scholar,  'for 
I  understand  not.'  'Willingly,'  quoth  the  poor 
man.  'Thou  wishest  me  good  morrow.  I 
never  had  an  ill  morrow,  for,  am  I  an  hungered, 
I  praise  God  ;  am  I  freezing,  doth  it  hail,  snow, 
rain,  is  it  fair  weather  or  foul,  I  praise  God  ; 
and  therefore  had  I  never  ill  morrow.  Thou 
didst  say,  God  prosper  thee.  I  have  been 
never  unprosperous,  for  I  know  how  to  live 
with  God  ]  I  know  that  what  he  doth  is  best, 
and  what  God  giveth  or  ordaineth  for  me,  be  it 
pain  or  pleasure,  that  I  take  cheerfully  from 
him  as  the  best  of  all,  and  so  I  had  never 
adversity.'"  "Then  understood  this  Master 
that  true  Abandonment,  with  utter  Abasement, 
was  the  nearest  way  to  God."*  He  who  rests 
in  the  All-sufficient  finds  rest. 

It  is  a  fact  worthy  of  notice  that  a  true  peace 
comes  to  the  soul  when  a  besetting  sin  has  been 
overcome.     There  is  no  calculating  the  amount 

*  Vol.  I.  p.  152,  Lond.  ed. 


352  Sorrow. 

of  misery  which  comes  to  a  human  spirit  from 
a  single  besetting  sin.  There  is  an  unbalanced 
state  of  mind,  and  a  constant  fretting  pain 
To  cut  loose  from  such  a  sin  has  seemed  to  be 
impossible.  Conscience  has  condemned,  the 
heart  has  grieved,  the  will  has  resolved  ;  but 
all  to  no  purpose.  Once  in  a  while  a  slight 
victory  is  gained,  and  there  is  joy  in  proportion 
to  the  extent  of  it ;  but  the  joy  soon  ends  in 
sorrow,  because  the  victory  soon  ends  in  defeat. 
As  the  result  of  this  state  of  things,  a  sense  of 
weakness  has  taken  possession  of  the  soul,  and 
a  steady  sadness  which  deepens  ever  with  each 
returning  fall.  But  now  there  is  a  change. 
The  besetting  sin  is  conquered.  The  soul  lives 
as  it  never  has  lived  before.  Elasticity  of 
movement  is  now  its  characteristic.  There  in 
an  unwonted  sense  of  freedom.  To  be  delivered 
from  one  great  sin  seems  like  a  new  conversion. 
Thankfulness,  happiness,  readiness  for  work  or 
worship,  bear  the  spirit  onward.  The  very  joy 
is  life,  and  the  life  is  joy.  This  is  a  far  different 
thing  from  the  mere  stimulus  of  nature,  the 
glow  of  ambition,  the  radiance  of  hope,  the 
pleasure  of  praise,  or  the  peace  of  imaginary 
goodness. 

It  is  a  very  curious  fact  that  when  we  labor 


SoBEow  Alleviated.  353 

for  the  highest  good  of  man  till  ive  are  weary ^ 
we  ultimately  have  a  high  degree  of  satisfaction. 
It  is  not  sufficient  that  we  do  a  little  ;  limiting 
our  labors  with  great  care  lest  we  should  seem 
to  go  too  far  ;  taking  a  kind  of  holy  recreation  ; 
but  we  must  so  labor  that  we  really  feel  tired. 
Such  hard  work  in  love  consumes  sorrow.  Our 
spirits  may  seem  to  flag  by  reason  of  the  con- 
stant activity,  yet  the  heart  grief  is  certainly 
lessened.  The  purest  benevolence  is  acted  out, 
and  such  benevolence  must  diffuse  joy  around 
the  soul.  The  finest  character  is  built  up  in 
this  v/ay.  There  is  gold,  silver,  precious  stones. 
Two  ends  are  accomphshed  by  the  one  course 
of  benevolent  activity, — others  are  benefited, 
and  my  own  soul  is  strengthened.  Then,  as  I 
view  the  good  which  I  have  done,  I  am  pleased  ; 
while  the  love  that  works  in  my  heart  adds  to 
my  happiness.  Not  only  is  sorrow  lessened  by 
the  expulsion  of  selfishness,  but  it  is  lessened 
also  by  the  presence  of  joy.  The  more  we  love, 
the  more  we  live.  The  very  sun  seems  to  be 
happy  because  it  shines,  and  the  stream  because 
it  flows.  Millions  are  trying  to  make  them- 
selves happy  by  doing  as  little  as  they  can. 
How  much  better  it  would  be  if  they  would  try 
and  bless  others  hj  doing  as  much  as  they  can 


354:  SoREow. 

for  them.  A  man  is  to  be  measured  by  the 
amount  of  his  self-denial ;  and  he  who  suffers 
when  he  serves  has  the  peace  of  the  Lord.  We 
need  more  patient  endurance,  more  self-sacri- 
fice, more  of  the  courage  that  begins  and  ends 
with  love.  A  battle  once  raged  between  the 
Moslems  and  Greeks.  The  latter  far  out- 
numbered the  former.  The  conflict  was  long 
and  bloody.  The  standard  of  Islam  was  carried 
by  a  person  named  Jafar.  During  the  battle, 
his  right  hand  was  cut  off.  He  placed  the  ban- 
ner, however,  in  his  left  hand  j  but  it  was  not 
long  before  the  left  hand  was  lost  also.  He 
then  pressed  the  banner  to  his  breast  by  the 
aid  of  his  bleeding  stumps,  determined  that  it 
should  not  fall  to  the  dust.  His  bravery  nerved 
the  soldiers  with  new  power.  Fifty  wounds 
marked  his  body,  yet  he  would  not  yield. 
With  a  blow  his  head  was  struck  off ;  then  he 
fell.  Such  valor  and  self-forgetfulness  speak  to 
all. 

When  sin  is  destroyed,  sorrow  will  he  de- 
stroyed. It  is  impossible  to  be  free  from  griet 
so  long  as  depravity  lingers  about  the  heart. 
At  the  end  of  days,  then,  the  good  shall  be  de- 
livered from  sadness.  When  that  time  comes, 
joy  without  any  sorrow  and  righteousness  with- 


SoEBow  Alleviated.  355 

out  any  sin  shall  conduct  the  spirit  to  its  home ; 
and  throughout  all  eternity  it  will  be  well.  Evil 
shall  simply  be  the  cloud  of  the  early  times  ; 
the  short  night  which  preceded  the  eternal 
morning. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

GOD  AND  HEAVEN  AS  TIIOUOETS  OF  POWER  TO  TEE 
SORROWFUL. 

TO  think  about  God  and  heaven  is  refreshing. 
I  will  therefore  mention  some  leading 
thoughts  relating  to  each ;  allowing  these 
thoughts  to  impress  the  mind  in  their  own  way. 
It  is  a  gain  to  be  moved  by  the  direct  power 
of  great  objects.  Too  much  of  human  guidance 
is  sometimes  an  injury. 

We  begin  with  God.  *'  Give  me  a  great 
thought  that  I  may  quicken  m3^self  with  it/' 
was  the  language  of  Herder  to  his  son  during 
his  last  illness.  How  significant  was  that  re- 
quest! Surely  the  great  thought  which  he 
needed  was  God.  When  the  crisis  comes,  there 
is  but  one  Person  that  will  answer. 

I  am  arrested  by  the  very  uniqueness  of  the 
idea  of  God.  The  idea  is  altogether  peculiar. 
In  a  most  strict  sense  it  stands  alone.  If  God 
were  simply  an  enlarged  creature,  a  kind  of 


God  and  Heaven.  357 

infinite  angel  or  man,  "in  that  case  the  idea 
would  have  no  divine  peculiarity.  But  the  fact 
that  he  is  without  beginning  and  without  end, 
that  he  exists  of  necessity,  that  he  is  self-suf- 
ficient, shows  that  he  is  not  like  any  being 
in  existence.  It  is  because  Grod  is  God  that  he 
has  an  eternal  significance  to  the  creature.  The 
soul  of  man,  viewed  in  its  nature,  in  its  develop- 
ment, in  the  wonderful  sweep  of  its  lifetime, 
points  alone  to  God.  The  more  we  can  see  the 
Divine  Being  in  the  singularity  of  his  existence, 
the  more  healthy  is  our  thought  of  him.  The 
God  of  many  persons  is  nothing  but  a  fiction  of 
the  imagination. 

In  the  midst  of  mental  uneasiness  I  think  of 
the  calmness  of  the  High  and  Lofty  One.  He 
has  no  want ;  never  can  have  any.  We  cannot 
speak  of  God  as  becoming.  There  is  nothing  to 
become.  He  is.  That  is  takes  in  the  whole 
of  eternity  and  the  whole  of  God.  What  a 
sublime  oneness  characterizes  the  divine  na- 
ture !  Nothing  goes  too  far ;  nothing  is 
out  of  harmony.  I  can  say,  God  is  order  ; 
therefore  God  is  calmness.  We  speak  of 
the  repose  of  good  men,  of  the  peace  of  the 
angels,  of  the  ideal  rest  of  being  ;  but  what  is 
all  this  to  the  rest  of  God.     The  mind  is  lost  in 


358  Sorrow. 

the  midst  of  a  serenity  that  is  absolute.  I  can 
say,  God  is  truth,  Hfe,  love  ;  he  is  perfection, 
calmness,  blessedness.  It  is  curious  that  the 
mere  idea  of  calmness  quiets  the  mind  to  a  cer- 
tain extent.  Having  found  the  idea,  we  think 
of  that  which  it  represents  ;  and  as  we  keep 
thinking  upon  the  reality,  a  soothing  influence 
spreads  over  the  soul.  A  calm  and  beautiful 
day  ;  the  slow  murmur  of  a  stream  ;  the  gentle 
motion  of  birds  and  insects  in  the  air  ;  the  re- 
pose of  the  ocean  ;  the  ship  quietly  anchored  in 
the  bay  after  a  long  passage, — these  tend  to 
produce  serenity  of  soul.  I  am  quite  sure  that 
there  is  a  state  of  mind  which  loves  stillness, 
Noise,  confusion,  undue  excitement,  irritate  the 
soul.  The  troubled  spirit  wants  rest,  wants  it 
greatly  ;  and  anything  which  seems  like  the 
type  or  image  of  that  rest  is  loved.  A  quiet 
day  is  more  soothing  to  the  mind  than  a  quiet 
night,  because  the  day  wears  a  smile,  while  the 
night  is  sad.  The  noise  of  children  at  play  will 
not  trouble  us  so  much  as  the  noise  of  men  at 
work,  because  in  the  one  case  it  is  natural,  and 
in  the  other  it  is  not.  The  strife  of  women  is 
more  painful  to  us  than  the  strife  of  men,  even 
as  a  turbulent  Sabbath  seems  more  out  of  place 
than  a  turbulent  week-day. 


God  and  Heaven.  359 

I  am  impressed  with  the  fact  that  God  is 
carrying  out  one  eternal  thought.  A  soul  is 
great  in  proportion  to  the  greatness  of  its  plans 
and  the  ability  which  it  has  to  carry  them  out. 
The  man  who  is  only  able  to  sketch  a  plan  with 
a  few  particulars  in  it,  is  far  inferior  to  him 
whose  plan  includes  a  thousand  intricate  points. 
A  plan  also  that  will  exhaust  itself  during  a 
month,  shows  less  compass  of  mind  than  one 
that  will  take  a  year  to  exhaust  it.  Or  if  a 
person  should  toil  for  half  a  century  in  order  to 
realize  an  idea,  w^e  are  impressed  at  once  with 
\\s,  greatness.  Suppose  that  some  one  were 
permitted  to  live  for  a  thousand  years,  and  that 
he  had  formed  a  plan  which  would  well  nigh 
reach  across  that  period,  w^hat  a  conception  we 
should  have  of  mental  greatness !  Or  if  it  were 
among  the  possibilities  of  finite  mind  for  some 
exalted  intelhgence  to  lay  out  a  plan  and  then 
to  realize  it  during  the  march  of  a  thousand 
ages,  how  that  would  awe  us,  and  cause  us 
rJmost  to  fall  down  and  worship  such  a  being. 
It  is  quite  likely,  upon  the  high  scale  of  eternity, 
that  creatures  will  be  found  whose  plans  shall 
be  worlds  of  thought,  demanding  not  less  than 
a  milUon  of  years  to  carry  them  out.  But  even 
with  such  imaginings  before  us,  what  are  they 


360  Sorrow. 

all  to  that  great  thought  of  God  which  is  strictly 
external  ?  The  divine  idea  includes  all  that  has 
been  and  all  that  shall  be.  What  an  array  of 
particulars,  and  what  a  duration  is  demanded 
for  their  realization !  The  plan  of  God  as  it 
regards  tiine  is  endless  ;  may  we  not  say  as  it 
regards  space  that  it  will  extend  farther  and 
farther  forever  ? — thus  movements  in  time  and 
space  having  a  beginning,  but  no  fixed  end. 
Who  can  tell  but  that  now  we  are  members  of 
a  system,  not  the  first  that  has  been  created, 
but  rather  the  last  of  a  great  series  of  systems  ? 
During  the  mighty  roll  of  a  past  eternity,  uni- 
verse after  universe  may  have  flourished  and 
passed  away,  or  may  be  still  existing  in  the  re- 
mote regions  of  immensity,  while  we,  the 
children  of  a  later  hour,  have  just  begun  the 
journey  of  endless  ages.  There  may  be  some 
great  commonwealth  of  spirits  at  an  infinite  dis- 
tance from  our  realm  of  being,  whose  age  is 
not  less  than  a  billion  of  years.  In  any  case, 
what  an  immense  sweep  there  is  to  the  divine 
plan !  Surely  the  troubled  soul  may  be  quite 
content  to  leave  itself  in  God's  great  hand. 
The  Being  who  has  such  a  vast  reach  of  muid 
can  certainly  attend  to  a  human  spirit. 

T  am  struck  with  the  latent  power  of  God. 


God  and  Heaven.  361 

When  I  try  to  conceive  what  he  might  do,  I  gain 
a  conception  of  the  abiUty  of  God  that  seems 
to  be  equal  to  what  I  gain  by  noticing  the 
actual  manifestation  of  divine  power  in  creation. 
Of  course,  having  the  whole  universe  before  me 
as  a  sample  of  omnipotence,  1  am  led  by  that 
to  understand  more  correctly  the  unused  omni- 
potence of  God.  The  visible  leads  to  the  in- 
visible ;  just  as  the  works  of  a  great  man  show 
what  he  might  have  done  had  he  been  permitted 
to  live.  Viewing  God  as  the  Infinite,  he  must 
have  a  residue  of  power  that  is  far  greater  than 
that  which  runs  through  the  totality  of  created 
things.  Let  the  Infinite  even  multiply  his 
works  a  thousand-fold,  that  will  make  but  little 
(hfference  in  the  hidden  energies  of  his  un- 
bounded nature.  The  God  that  is  revealed  is 
nothing  to  the  God  that  is  concealed.  A 
thought  of  this  kind  gives  us  a  more  correct 
idea  of  the  strength  of  that  Being  whose  aid  we 
invoke ;  whose  mighty  arm  we  wish  to  be 
placed  underneath  us  in  our  weakness.  Certain 
of  the  ancient  warriors  were  accustomed  to 
have  upon  their  shields  a  likeness  of  some  par- 
ticular god.  In  this  way  they  were  nerved  to 
action  ;  and  in  this  way  a  protecting  power  was 
supposed  to  be  granted  to  them.     Our  God 


302  SoRKOW. 

cannot  be  represented.  We  are  simpl}/  to 
"trust  in  the  Lord  forev^er  ;  for  in  the  Lord 
Jehovah  is  everlasting  strength."  An  Arabian 
story  has  come  down  to  us  respecting  Solomon. 
The  story  says  that  the  greatest  of  men  had  a 
staff  on  which  he  leaned,  but  that  inside  of  the 
staff  was  a  worm  which  was  secretly  gnawing  it 
asunder.  As  the  result  of  this  it  finally  broke 
in  two.  Many  a  friend  that  we  lean  upon  gives 
way.  Our  staff  has  a  worm  inside  of  it.  God, 
however,  will  never  fail.  If  we  trust  in  him, 
we  are  just  as  safe  as  if  we  ourselves  were  pos- 
sessed of  divine  attributes. 

There  is  something  about  the  presence  of  a 
superior  mind  which  tends  to  comfort  a  sad 
spirit.  The  mere  consciousness  that  one  of 
exalted  merit  is  at  our  side  subdues  us.  We 
feel  that  new  resources  are  coming  forth  to  our 
relief.  New  thoughts  indeed  touch  us.  There 
is  a  life  and  a  warmth  which  we  have  not  had 
before.  The  very  strength  of  the  exalted  being 
seems  to  become  ours.  We  are  cheered  by  his 
presence  ;  see  hope  beckoning  us  on  :  a  firmer 
assurance  steadies  the  soul ;  a  balancing  power 
composes  the  mind.  No  direct  eflbrt  we  may 
put  forth  to  quiet  our  heart,  yet  we  are  quieted. 
Influences  come  to  us  from  w^ithout.    Our  passiv- 


God  and  Heaven.  368 

ity  is  the  condition  of  life.  Our  nature  being 
in  a  receptive  state,  virtue  reaches  us  from  the 
person  of  worth.  If  thus  we  are  affected  by 
the  presence  of  a  great  mind,  how  much  more 
when  the  great  mhid  is  God.  Nearness  to  the 
Infinite  Life  is  life.  He  h\ys  his  hand  gently 
upon  us  ;  we  bow  our  head  ;  peace  enters  the 
heart.  A  voice  speaks  through  the  silence — 
''Be  stiU,  and  know  that  I  am  God."  We 
hear  ;  we  obey  ;  we  find  rest. 

God  is  the  ultimate  Being.  Man  may  try 
himself,  try  friends,  try  teachers,  try  anything 
beneath  the  Supreme, — they  all  fail.  No  mind 
can  rest  until  it  reaches  ultimate  conceptions. 
If  I  look  for  ultimate  authority,—  some  one  to 
command,  from  whom  there  is  no  appeal, — I 
look  to  God.  Do  I  want  a  person  that  I  can 
love  supremely,  pray  to,  trust  in  forever  ? — God 
is  that  perfeon.  Then,  too,  as  I  reflect,  I  think 
of  a  beauty  which  is  not  seen  in  nature,  of  a 
wisdom  so  high  that  no  creature  can  have  it,  of 
an  eternity  and  infinity  that  cannot  be  limited, 
of  a  cause  that  is  before  and  after  all  other 
causes,  of  a  perfection  that  cannot  be  reached. 
If  there  be  no  Being  in  whom  these  ideas  are 
realized,  they  are  without  meaning.  Atheism 
forever  is  impossible.  *  God  is  the  source  and 


364  Sorrow. 

centre  of  all.  The  mystery  that  explains  all 
mysteries.  The  person  without  whom  there  is 
nothing. 

Thou  great  One  !  what  shall  we  say  of  thee? 
To  be  permitted  to  think  of  thee  is  itself  a 
blessing.  Thou  art  far  away  from  us,  and  yet 
thou  art  near.  What  an  eternity  was  thine 
before  creation  began !  No  beginning.  Life 
with  no  time  to  mark  it.  A  sun  there  was  not 
to  shine.  Thou  thyself  art  light.  We  speak 
of  thee  as  being  alone  in  the  ancient  past. 
But  solitude  pertains  not  to  thee.  Thou  art 
three  as  well  as  one.  Happy  therefore  thou 
wert  in  the  midst  of  a  communion  which  we 
cannot  know.  What  a  day  is  thine  !  the  eter- 
nal Sabbath  of  the  Lord.  Thou  sovereign  of 
the  ages  and  of  the  worlds,  thy  stray  creatures 
look  to  thee.  Thou  hast  forgiveness  for  the 
repenting,  joy  for  the  sad  in  spirit,  purity  for 
the  unclean.  All  power  comes  from  thee  and 
all  life.  Thou  boldest  in  thy  hand  the  cup  of 
mercy.     Men  drink.     They  are  well. 

We  take  up  now  the  idea  of  heaven.  One 
of  the  leading  thoughts  of  heaven  is  life.  Just 
what  it  is  to  live  we  know  not  as  yet.  The 
life  of  the  holiest  among  us  is  partly  a  death. 
The  entire  being  is  not  animated.     There  is  a 


God  and  Heaven.  365 

struggle  between  two  powers.  Sighing  min- 
gles with  joy  and  fearfulness  with  hope.  In 
heaven  all  is  changed.  Life  is  found  there  in 
its  completeness.  The  soul  is  cured.  I  do 
not  wonder  that  all  men  want  to  go  to  heaven. 
The  very  thought  of  it  is  pleasing.  It  calms 
the  soul  to  a  certain  extent.  It  is  a  dream  of 
joy.  One  sees  himself  entering  the  harbor  in 
safety.  He  joins  the  company  of  the  blest. 
He  gains  their  treasure.  Will  the  redeemed 
man  of  eternity  finally  reach  a  point  w^hen  he 
sb  all  be  higher  than  the  angels  who  have 
never  sinned  ?  It  is  difficult  to  answer  this.  I 
should  suppose,  however,  that  saved  men  will 
sometime  in  the  far-off  future  outstrip  the  an- 
gels. An  infinite  atonement  would  have  a  signifi- 
cance like  itself  from  such  a  fact.  The  unus- 
ual nature  of  the  divine  remedy  ;  the  applica- 
tion of  its  power  to  a  specific  race  ;  its  neces- 
sary connection  with  a  God-man  ;  the  fact  that 
it  is  the  central  medium  of  divine  manifesta- 
tion ;  the  bearing  which  it  will  have  upon  the 
entire  government  of  the  Most  High, — these 
considerations  may  demand  that  the  highest 
form  of  creaturely  life  in  heaven  should  be 
found  among  the  ranks  of  the  saved.  Prom 
the  fact  also  that  the  incarnate  Son  of  God  is 


366  Sorrow. 

the  head  of  the  creation,  it  may  seem  fit  and 
proper  that  the  men  he  has  redeemed  should 
be  nearest  to  him. 

Having  caught  the  thought  of  highest  hfe  in 
heaven,  how  overpowering  is  that  hfe  when  it 
is  viewed  as  endless.  The  coUective  pain  which 
may  torment  one  during  his  sojourn  in  time  is 
absolutely  nothing  when  compared  with  the 
blessedness  of  an  eternity.  The  sorrow  of  earth 
is  but  the  midnight  cry  of  an  uneasy  sleeper, 
the  slight  scratch  of* a  pin,  the  flight  of  a  shadow. 
How  strange  that  even  good  men  should  brood 
over  their  troubles !  An  immortal  is  worried 
and  wounded  with  trifles.  The  heir  of  heaven 
is  depressed  because  of  an  angry  word,  a  cold 
look,  a  dark  providence.  The  one  fact  that  all 
the  evils  of  life  will  end  quite  soon,  and  that 
forever,  is  sufficient  to  stay  up  the  soul  while 
here.  It  is  evident  that  the  endless  is  not  made 
a  permanent  topic  of  human  thought.  There 
seems  to  be  no  state  of  mind  developed  by  it. 
Emotions  now  and  then  simply  arise.  I  pre- 
sume, however,  that  there  are  minds  that  may 
be  said  to  have  a  tendency  to  that  which  is 
eternal.  They  live  in  the  future  while  as  yet 
they  live  here.  The  powers  of  the  world  to 
come  centralize  and  govern  them.     Such  men 


God  and  Heaven.  367 

as  Howe,  Edwards,  Whitefield,  and  Wesley, 
were  of  this  class.  Persons  of  this  stamp  dif- 
fuse an  immortal  fragrance  around  them. 
They  see  that  on  the  gates  of  the  heavenly  chy 
and  the  palace  walls,  on  every  glittering  spire 
and  dome  and  arch  and  pillar,  the  word  life  is 
written  ;  and  the  great  clock  of  eternity  strikes 
off  its  hours  ;  but  no  toll  of  death  is  heard  in 
all  that  land.  The  very  streams  seem  to  be 
eternal  rivers,  as  if  they  had  started  from  the 
fountains  of  God  ;  and  the  same  trees  that  were 
planted  at  the  dawn  of  creation  bear  fruit  still. 
The  skies  that  stretch  far  away  have  all  the 
clearness  and  serenity  of  the  everlasting  morn- 
ing ;  seeming  like  the  reflection  of  God's  great 
eternity,  or  like  the  garment  that  covers  him  as 
he  sits  upon  the  throne  of  life. 

Heaven  is  a  place  of  unimpeded  energy. 
How  such  a  fact  addresses  human  weakness. 
The  glorified  soul  and  body  will  each  be  great 
powers.  There  will  no  doubt  be  an  ability  to 
sweep  .over  vast  spaces  in  an  exceedingly  short 
time.  What  a  relief  also  to  be  able  to  carry 
forward'some  great  mental  process  to  the  very 
end  without  any  hindrance.  The  most  gifted 
minds  are  hampered.  There  is  frequently  a 
mixing  of  subjects.     This  partly  arising  from  a 


368  Sorrow. 

deficiency  of  knowledge  ;  partly  from  a  diver- 
sion caused  by  the  principle  of  association  ;  and 
also  by  reason  of  a  break  in  the  logical  process. 
The  great  scholars  of  eternity  will  have  a  com- 
plete mastery  of  certain  leading  topics.  When 
the  mental  process  has  been  brought  to  a  close, 
it  will  be  strictly  complete,  Exhaustiveness  in 
eternity  will  be  a  different  thing  from  that 
which  goes  by  the  same  name  in  time. 

We  have  a  right  to  beheve  also  that  saved 
souls  will  be  led  forward  by  the  power  of  U7i' 
mixed  truth.  No  man  upon  earth  is  thus  led 
for  any  length  of  thne.  In  heaven  alone  all  is 
true.  How  much  that  suggests  to  a  thoughtful 
mind.  Truth  will  be  seen  as  it  is,  will  be  loved 
for  its  own  sake,  will  be  the  food  of  the  soul. 
A  mind  eternally  developed  under  the  sole 
guidance  of  eternal  truth  will  be  a  mind  of 
lofty  finish.  Then  to  have  all  the  movements 
of  the  heart  and  the  life  to  be  truthful,  how 
high  that  shall  raise  the  character  of  heaven. 
To  see  every  being  without  the  least  deception 
or  falsehood  will  be  a  blessed  sight.  To  be 
able  to  exercise  complete  confidence  in  all  the 
inhabitants  of  heaven  forever  and  ever  will  be 
a  blessed  state  of  things.  What  ease,  frank- 
ness, and  openness  there  will  be.     Purity  in  all 


God  and  Heaven.  369 

its  singleness  and  identity  ;  hence  no  feeling  of 
shame.  Concealment,  which  is  one  of  the  great 
characteristics  of  time,  not  found  in  the  world 
of  light.  The  likelihood  that  there  will  be  a 
rapid  and  free  interchange  of  mental  treasures 
among  the  heavenly  powers. 

We  think  of  heaven  as  the  place  of  ideal 
blessedness.  There  is  not  found  a  single  human 
being  who  is  contented  to  hve  among  the  stern 
actualities  of  every-day  life.  The  wisest  men 
and  the  most  ignorant,  the  best  men  and  the 
most  wicked,  charm  themselves  with  a  scene 
that  appears  to  them  better  than  the  one  that 
is  around  them.  Some  sweep  the  earth  in 
search  of  a  treasure,  and  some  ascend  to  heaven 
in  order  to  find  one  there.  We  sometimes 
think,  in  the  midst  of  our  pain  and  weariness, 
what  a  universe  this  would  be  if  all  were  well 
at  heart ;  no  trouble  of  any  kind  disturbing  the 
spirit,  no  sin  of  any  kind  staining  the  soul. 
The  idea  that  all  creatures  are  at  rest  makes  us 
sigh.  We  long  at  once  to  be  away  to  the  pure 
land,  to  the  kingdom  of  limitless  life  and  joy. 
There  each  one  is  clad  with  a  garment  of  peace, 
and  each  brow  is  radiant  with  the  glory  of  the 
Lord.  As  the  eternal  times  move  away  there 
is  seen  no  cloud  of  evil.     Only  in  the  light  do 


370  SoEEOw. 

men  walk  ;  the  day  fills  all  the  hours.  Yet  in 
our  imagination  we  want  to  ascend  higher  ;  we 
would  go  to  the  very  summit  of  ideal  blessed- 
ness ;  we  therefore  reach  God.  We  try  to 
realize  the  harmony  of  an  Infinite  Being,  the 
joy  and  peace  of  the  Eternal  One.  Far  above 
us  all  he  reigns.  In  himself  he  is  complete. 
He  is  most  blessed  forever.  Thus  does  the 
troubled  mind  of  man  w^ander  far  awa}^,  wan- 
der upward  to  God,  if  so  be  it  may  get  a 
glimpse  of  that  which  as  yet  it  has  never  found. 
Heaven  is  the  place  where  we  shall  meet  our 
ransomed  friends.  Sometimes  a  new  direction 
is  given  to  the  soul  by  the  fact  that  one  we 
love  has  gone  to  live  in  that  world.  Simply  to 
have  a  child  in  heaven  makes  it  exceedingly 
attractive.  A  new  motive  is  placed  there  to 
draw  us  over  to  its  blessedness.  We  feel  that 
this  world  is  colder  than  formerly.  We  sicken 
more  in  view  of  its  pleasures  and  pastime,  its 
earthly  good  and  gilded  show.  We  therefore 
look  off  with  anxious  longing  to  a  home  among 
the  stars,  where  we  shall  mingle  with  those 
that  are  so  dear,  and  pass  away  the  hours  of 
eternity  in  scenes  of  unbroken  friendship  and 
joy.  The  dreariness  of  a  cold  winter's  da}',  or 
the  beating  of  the  midnight  storm,  sends  the 


God  and  Heaven.  371 

80ul  upward  to  the  region  of  the  blest,  where 
our  friends  are  sheltered  in  peace,  and  where 
the  desolations  of  time  reach  them  not.  As  we 
think  also  cf  the  vanity  of  all  earthly  things, 
the  coldness  of  human  hearts,  the  suspicions 
and  slanders  of  men,  we  sigh  the  more  to  reach 
those  we  love,  hoping  to  meet  them  quickly  on 
the  other  shore.  There  are  a  vast  number  ot 
things  here  that  prompt  us  to  go  away,  telling 
us  that  this  is  not  the  place  of  our  rest.  Ihere 
is  our  home,  and  there  are  found  those  we  long 
to  see,  waiting  to  receive-  us  when  we  come. 
Take  it  all  in  all,  it  is  one  of  the  beautiful  things 
of  a  sanctified  humanity  that  love  unites  friends 
even  though  they  may  inhabit  different  worlds, 
and  that  love  burns  stronger  and  stronger  till 
heart  meets  heart  and  soul  touches  soul  in  the 
great  kingdom  of  eternity. 

The  ultimate  conception  of  heaven  is  that  of 
a  region  of  life  w^here  all  is  right.  I  know  that 
this  idea  of  heaven  cannot  be  unfolded ;  neither 
is  it  necessary  that  it  should  be.  Quite  likely 
the  thought  is  touched  with  eternal  and  infinite 
realities,  and  for  that  reason  it  evades  us. 
There  is  a  degree  of  pleasure  in  coming  into 
contact  with  ideas  that  our  minds  cannot  fully 
grasp.     I    think   that   frequently   a  weariness 


372  SoKROW. 

comes  over  us  because  we  are  living  in  the 
midst  of  thoughts  that  we  can  master  quite 
easily.  The  teacher  who  teaches  the  same 
things  year  after  year  must  be  wearied,  in  the 
long  run,  with  the  very  simplicity  and  tameness 
of  his  life.  It  wouldseein  as  if  at  the  close  of 
each  week,  if  not  at  the  close  of  each  dav,  he 
would  hasten  off  to  a  high  realm  of  thought ; 
and  communing  there  with  the  everlasting  and 
the  divine,  the  supersensible  and  the  changeless, 
he  would  nourish  his  immortal  nature  with 
food  which  could  not  be  obtained  from  the 
definitions  and  duties  of  a  common  profession. 
Heaven  is  a  place  where  all  is  right.  The 
mind  hovers  around  that  thought ;  is  pleased 
with  it ;  settles  down  in  it.  We  are  living 
upon  the  surface  of  a  shattered  world.  The 
earth  is  in  the  midst  of  an  eclipse.  A  deformed 
race  are  born  here,  and  here  they  die.  No 
damaged  thing  is  found  in  heaven.  The  souls 
and  circumstances  there,  are  just  as  they  should 
be.  Heaven  is  the  chief  joy  amid  the  realms 
of  God.  Glorious  land!  how  many  sigh  to 
reach  thine  abodes.  In  exile  we  wander  here  ; 
in  darkness  ;  in  the  midst  of  death.  No  day 
finds  us  well ;  no  hour  is  radiant  with  the  light 
of  the  eternal  morning.     How  the  spirit  tires 


God  axd  Heayen.  373 

in  its  toilsome  wa}^  ;  wishing  that  repose  might 
come  quite  soon.  We  long  for  a  righted  na- 
tm^e  ;  for  a  vision  of  complete  life  ;  for  a 
Divine  Presence  to  beam  upon  us.  What  a 
moment  that  will  be  when  first  we  reach 
heaven  !  The  soul  imbosomed  in  bliss  ;  at  home 
in  the  lands  of  eternity  ;  living  with  God. 


THE  END. 


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